


Sing to Me, Oh so Sweetly

by lavenderlotion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Creature Peter Hale, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark Magic, F/M, First Time, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Grief, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Magical Claudia Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Making Out, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Neglected Stiles Stilinski, Orphan Stiles Stilinski, Rimming, Running Away, Rutting, Self-Discovery, Sick Claudia Stilinski, Siren Peter Hale, Sirens, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-10-03 14:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 52,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17285402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/pseuds/lavenderlotion
Summary: “Can I get a story, Mama?” Stiles asked.“What type of story do you want to hear, darling?” his mama asked, sitting on the edge of his bed and playing with Stiles’ hair. He liked it when she did that.“I wanna hear about the magic woman!” Stiles demanded, doing his best to keep still.“You always wanna hear about the magic woman,” Mama told him. “Well, alright. Do you want me to start from the beginning?”“Well, duh,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. The beginning was always the best part.“Once upon a time, there was a young girl with skin as white as the moon and eyes as bright as the sun.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red_crate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/gifts).



> So many thanks are needed for this work. Firstly, a gigantic thank you to red_crate for, not only running the Steter Reverse Bang 2018, but for being an amazing partner. I am so sorry I wasn’t able to get this story out for the event. The mood board you created was gorgeous and so, so inspiring. I hope the fic holds up. 
> 
> A big thank you to [Syriala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syriala), [Harry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale), [Merwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merwin_Me), [AuguriesofInnocence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuguriesofInnocence) and everyone else I desperately begged for feedback back in June when I was hopelessly trying to write this (and then again in December when I started working on it again). 
> 
> A big thank you to [Levi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviice458) for dropping everything to read this entire thing and reassuring me it wasn’t completely horrible, and the biggest thank you [thegirlwhoknits!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhoknits/pseuds/thegirlwhoknits), who did an amazing job beta'ing this for me, while keeping up with my weird time frames. You are the best.

“Can I get a story, Mama?” Stiles asked, burrowing deeper into the mattress. His mama had knit him a second blanket to sleep on, so he was extra comfortable.

“What type of story do you want to hear, darling?” his mama asked, sitting on the edge of his bed and playing with Stiles’ hair. He liked it when she did that.

“I wanna hear about the magic woman!” Stiles demanded, doing his best to keep still. He always had a hard time staying still, but it was always harder when he got really excited like he was now. Stiles’ mama told the  _ best _ stories, way better than Papa because he didn’t do the voices right.

“You always wanna hear about the magic woman,” Mama told him, and it was true. The magic woman was his favourite story ever! “Well, alright. Do you want me to start from the beginning?” 

“Well, duh,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. The beginning was always the best part.

“Once upon a time, there was a young girl with skin as white as the moon and eyes as bright as the sun.” Mama’s voice was soft, and she was still petting Stiles’ hair. He wasn’t tired;  he wanted to hear the story more than he wanted to go to sleep. “There was something special about the little girl, though. She had been very, very sick as a baby. She wasn’t expected to live through the first night, let alone the first week!  All the town’s healers had tried their best to help the baby, but their earthly magic was not strong enough to make the baby healthy again, and there was nothing to be done about it.”

Stiles listened excitedly as his mother talked, trying not to wiggle around too much. 

“But, then Mother Moon kissed the little girl’s skin, making it as pale as she was herself, with a scattering of stars that appeared as dark marks. It made her healthier than she had ever been, and when she grew a little older, she was the prettiest little girl in her whole village! She was very smart, though the elders of her village didn’t think she was smart at all. She could never sit still when they were holding study time, and she always asked them the silliest questions. 

“She had a heart as big as the night sky, but that didn’t mean everyone was nice to her. Some of the other boys and girls were mean to her, and they made fun of her because they thought she was too weird and too silly. They wouldn’t play games with her, and they would call her mean names.”

“That isn’t very nice,” Stiles said quietly. He knew how the little girl must have felt. Sometimes when he went into town, the kids made fun of him too. Mama smoothed his hair back and leaned down to kiss his forehead. 

“They didn’t know that she was just special. Because she was kissed by Mother Moon, she had magic that no one else in all the land had. No one had ever had magic like hers before—even if no one knew about this magic until years later. They thought she was weird, but it was only because she saw the true magic in all things. She saw the beauty in all the world, how trees and rocks, and even little bugs, were all connected together. 

“However, the little girl didn’t know she had magic, so she didn’t use it for many years. She was happy without it; she couldn’t miss something she had never known about. She fell in love with a nice man, who worked hard to build them a house and a farm at the edge of town, where they would live together for the rest of their lives, tending to that farm.”

“Did he make her a nice house?” Stiles asked, covering his mouth as he yawned so that his mama wouldn’t see. If she knew he was tired, there was a chance she would stop reading to him.

“He made her the nicest house!” his mama told him, tickling his side before she continued. “It wasn’t until she had fallen in love that she learned about her magic. She could feel her baby inside her belly like no other woman could, and she knew it was magic! She didn’t know much of what she could do with it, but she learned how to make flowers grow and how to heal small pains.

“When the woman had her baby, her magic rushed out of her. The woman started getting sick, as her magic left when she gave birth, for now her baby had nearly all the magic used to be hers. The woman looked down at her baby, her heart full of joy even as her wonderful magic rushed out of her into and into his little body.

“She looked up to the sky and begged Mother Moon to kiss her baby, just like Mother Moon had kissed her. Mother Moon did, because the woman who once was a little girl held a special place in Mother Moon’s heart, and so she marked him as one of her own as she had his mother, years ago. 

“But because the woman didn’t have all of her magic like before, the sickness she’d had as a baby came back. The woman knew she was going to die, because her baby boy had all the magic that had been keeping her alive for so many years. But she didn’t care, because she loved her son very much, and as long as her son was happy and healthy then the woman was happy as well.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Stiles said with a big yawn, not trying to hide it this time. His eyelids felt too heavy to even open.

“I love you, baby. Get to sleep.” 

Stiles nodded, a smile pulling at his lips as Mama kissed his forehead.

* * *

Stiles ran faster, his feet pounding into the dirt as he laughed. He looked back for just a moment, just to make sure Scott wasn’t getting close enough to tag him, and then he was falling, tumbling to the ground with a shout. He hit his knee, little rocks digging painfully into his palms as he caught himself.

“Stiles? Stiles, are you okay?” Scott sounded worried, and Stiles saw him skid to a stop out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to look up, so he just shook his head in answer. “Is there something I can do? Do you need something? S-should I get your mom?”

Stiles wasn’t sure why Scott whispered the last part, but he nodded his head anyway. He just wanted his mama—or his papa, he wouldn’t be very picky right now—to make it all better. He wasn’t sure how much time Scott was gone for, but it couldn’t have been long. They never played too far from the town, always making sure to keep the church’s steeple in sight, if they left at all.

His knee really hurt, and it was bleeding so badly that he couldn’t even touch it. He tried to stop crying, but it just burned so much. Not only did his knee hurt, his hands felt like they were on  _ fire _ .

He didn’t look up when he heard footsteps, just in case it wasn’t his mama yet. He didn’t want anyone to see him crying like this. The other kids were already mean enough, calling him names and not letting him play with them when he ventured into town. Stiles had no idea why they didn’t like him, but he didn’t need to give them more reason to say hurtful things.

“Stiles? Baby, can you sit up for me?” Stiles looked up at the sound of his mama’s voice, and he quickly sat up like she asked.

“Mama!” he cried, clutching at his skinned knee in pain. It hurt, and he didn’t care if big boys weren’t supposed to cry, he couldn’t stop.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asked. Stiles shook his head. His knee was still bleeding, and he could feel blood dripping down his leg.

“N-no,” Stiles said, his lip wobbling as he tried to stop crying. “It really hurts.”

“I know, baby,” Mama said, her voice just as soft as it had always been. 

It helped to calm Stiles down, and he sniffled a few more times before his eyes finally dried. His knee still really hurt, but just having his mama close made everything feel better. Stiles’ hand didn’t even sting anymore. He knew that everything would be fine, now that Mama was there.

“Look at me; eyes up here,” his mama said, and Stiles raised his head, giggling when she stuck out her tongue at him.

She ran a hand up the side of Stiles’ leg, her fingertips tickling his skin as she went, before she grabbed his knee. Stiles expected it to hurt—he even squeezed his eyes shut before the pain could hit—but it just tingled. He gasped, looking down with wide eyes as his skin knit back together. He couldn’t bring himself to look away. He'd never healed a cut so fast before! 

“There we go,” his mama said, tapping Stiles’ knee, and Stiles made a soft  _ ‘ohh’ _ as the blood that had dried on his skin fell away.

“Thank you!” Stiles exclaimed, jumping up and hugging his mama tightly around her neck.

“You’re welcome, baby,” she said, hugging Stiles right back. “Now, go find Scott. He was worried out of his mind about you.”

Stiles nodded, smacking a noisy kiss to his mama’s cheek before running away. 

* * *

“Papa?” Stiles asked, swinging both of his hands back and forth. They were walking towards the market. Mama and Papa were each holding one of his hands, and if he swung them enough, his parents would lift him into the air!

“Yes, kiddo?” Papa said, looking down at him.

Stiles liked when he got to talk to his Papa. Stiles didn’t get to see him much—Papa worked hard out in the fields, tending to their farm and making sure the sheep they owned were healthy. They were sheep farmers, and they provided almost the whole town with wool! It was a really big responsibility, and his papa was almost always out in the fields all day long.

He always tried to come inside before Stiles went to bed, though. Even though Mama was better at telling stories, Stiles always liked to have his papa there as well. He liked it when Papa sat with them. Now that he could go to bed without a story, he just enjoyed spending time with both of his parents together.

The only other time Stiles got to see him was really, really early in the morning. Sometimes, Stiles would stay up  _ all night _ just so he could make Papa breakfast before he had to go out and work. Papa loved it when Stiles made him breakfast, and they always cuddled for extra long. 

Papa gave the best hugs.

“Can we get a cow?” Stiles asked, staring up at his papa with wide eyes. It usually got him whatever he wanted from adults. They all thought he was adorable.

“No, Stiles, we cannot get a cow,” Papa said, and he smiled over at Mama like Stiles had said something funny. 

“Why not?” Stiles demanded, not at all afraid to pull out a pout. Again, all the adults he knew thought he was adorable, and that meant his parents had to think he was  _ extra  _ adorable.

“We don’t need a cow,” Papa said, and he still sounded like he was laughing. He was the rudest!

“Yes, we do!” Stiles argued. He stopped in his tracks and stared at his Papa. “Cows give us milk, and I need milk to get strong bones!”

Mama laughed, and Stiles sent her the sourest look he could muster. She was supposed to be on his side! 

“We can just buy milk from the farmers that have cows.”

“But if we had a cow, then we wouldn’t have to buy milk!” Stiles explained. Gosh, why couldn’t they understand that this was a good idea?

“But Stiles,” his mama said, running her hand over Stiles’ sheared hair. “If we got a cow, we would have to care for the cow, and feed the cow. And that would cost just as much as if we were to buy milk.”

“Really?” Stiles asked. He hadn’t thought having a cow would be so expensive. They had plenty of sheep, and all the sheep just ate grass. 

“And,” his papa added, squatting down, “we don’t even know how to take care of a cow. What if we got a cow and it got sick because we don’t know what cows need to be healthy?”

Oh goodness. Stiles hadn’t thought of that. He didn’t want a cow to die. Really, he only wanted a cow because Jackson’s Papa had gotten him a cow, and Stiles  _ hated _ Jackson. He thought that he was better than everyone else, just because he had a bigger house and more horses than anyone else in town. 

_ Whatever _ , no one even cared about how many horses Jackson’s Papa had.

“I don’t think we should get a cow,” Stiles finally said, nodding his head decisively.

“Okay, kiddo,” Papa said, standing up and ruffling his hair. “We won’t get a cow.”

* * *

“Hey, kiddo,” Papa said, coming through the front door and bending down to give Stiles a hug. Stiles squeezed him right back, laughing when his papa grunted. “You are getting so strong!”

“I’m not  _ that _ strong, Papa,” Stiles said, giggling more when his papa stroked his chin like he did when he was thinking real hard.

“Hmm. Well, you might not be yet, but one day you will be!” Papa said, drawing Stiles into another hug before he continued through the house.

Stiles went back to his work, quietly answering the questions that he had gotten from his tutor. Stiles was glad that Papa was so busy on the farm, and that he needed Stiles to help him so much. He wouldn’t have enjoyed going to school like the town kids did. The stories that Scott had told him didn’t sound like very much fun at all, and with learning from his tutor, he could spend the whole day at home.

“Claudia, where’s my underwear?” Papa hollered, his voice echoing through their house. 

Stiles looked up from his paper, turning to look into the kitchen where Mama was standing at their stove. He didn’t know what she was making for dinner, but it smelled good. His mama was a great cook, though lately she’d been cooking a lot of simpler meals. Stiles didn’t mind, but he missed helping her in the kitchen. He liked helping Mama get dinner ready for all three of them.

Papa was dirty—he always was, coming in from working on the fields—when he walked back into the kitchen, his whole arms covered in dirt. He didn’t mean to look, really, but Stiles couldn't force his eyes away. Papa’s chest was hairy, his belly too, and Stiles couldn’t stop staring.

“Oh. Oh, I must have left the laundry in the tub this afternoon,” Mama said. There was something off about her voice, enough to pull Stiles’ attention.

“You forgot the laundry in the tub?” Papa asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Oh my, Stiles  _ really _ had to look away that time.

“As I was washing it, yes.” Mama wiped her hands on her apron. Stiles watched as she turned from the stove and took a few steps, only to stop and scamper back, lifting the pot of stew off the burner. “Just give me a few moments and I’ll get them hung up.”

“Are you feeling alright?” Papa asked, and Stiles watched as he pulled Mama against his chest and brushed her hair behind her ears for her.

“I’m fine, dear. Just a little tired, nothing to worry about,” Mama said. Stiles looked away when they kissed, though he smiled down at his worksheet.

One day, Stiles wanted someone to love him as much as his mama and papa loved each other. 

* * *

Stiles was tired. He was tired, and he didn't want to get out of bed, even though it was Tuesday and he had to. He really, really had to. Papa needed his help today, because one of their sheep was ready to give birth. Usually Mama would help him, but last night Papa said it was time that he did it himself. He had been watching them do it his whole life, and Papa thought he might finally be ready to help out.

Another reason he didn’t want to get out of bed was how scared he felt. He was worried that he would do something to hurt the sheep, or do something wrong when the poor animal was having her lamb. His mama kept telling him that it would be okay, that Stiles was a natural when it came to helping out the animals—they had pigs, too—but Stiles wasn’t so sure.

“C’mon, Mieczysław.” Mama’s voice was soft, just as comforting as it had always been, but Stiles frowned into his pillow, scrunching up his nose. “It’s time to get up, baby.”

“I know, Mama,” Stiles said, still a little confused. 

His mama hadn’t called him Mieczysław in  _ years _ , not even when she was mad at him. That was his name, the one his mama called him at birth, but  _ everyone _ called him Stiles. Mieczysław was too hard for Stiles (and his papa) to say, and his mama had taken pity on them and let Stiles call himself whatever he wanted. 

So no one had called him by his birth name for years, and it was strange that his mama was now. Stiles didn’t have time to think about it, though. He had already slept in, and he knew Papa would need him out in the field really soon. 

“Get up, get ready,” his mama told him, leaving him and walking back into the kitchen.

Stiles sighed deeply, trying to prepare himself. He would be fine. He knew what to do, and both his parents trusted him to do a good job.

* * *

Stile was helping Papa feed the pigs when Mama walked around back. She was in a pretty dress—one of Stiles’ favourites—and Stiles smiled when his papa whistled at her. He laughed when she strutted over straight into Papa’s arms, not seeming to care about the dirt he would be getting on her dress when he dipped her for a kiss.

“Good day, my hard-working men,” Mama cooed at them once she and Papa had stepped away from one another. “What are you two doing out here?”

“Feeding the pigs,” Stiles said, sharing an eyeroll with Papa. Really, what else would they be doing in the pig’s pen?

“Well, we’re wasting daylight!” Mama told them. “We gotta head down to the market. I want to get there before all the produce is picked over.”

“What is it we still need from the market?” Stiles asked, adding a little more hay into the feeder.

“We’re low on carrots, and Susan is claiming to have the best beets we’ve ever seen—though if you ask me, I think she’s just talking it up. Her produce is never that good,” Mama said with a loud huff. Stiles sent his papa a questioning look.

“We got all that already, Mama,” Stiles said, tickling one of the pigs along her side. 

“Oh, nonsense. Come now, I don’t want to be out too late,” Mama said, putting her hands on her hips.

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” Papa said, and Stiles’ chest felt tight with nerves. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, John! I already told ya what I’m talking about, and I was pretty dang clear the first time.”

“Claudia,” Papa said, walking back over to her and grabbing her hand. “We went to the market two days ago.”

“Come off it, you two,” Claudia said, though her voice lacked its usual lightness. She looked worried, and so did Papa.

“Claudia, neither of us are kidding. We went to the market the other day,” he said, and Stiles couldn’t stop himself from biting at his fingernails—an awful habit he was doing his best to quit, but not when he was this nervous. 

“I don’t...I can’t...” Mama began, but Stiles could see that her bottom lip was starting to shake and that her eyes were beginning to water.

“Claudia,” Papa said quietly, and he pulled her against his chest as she began to cry. 

Stiles didn’t know what to do, but he figured a hug would help no matter what was wrong. With that in mind, he joined them, embracing both of his parents from the side. They hadn’t told him anything yet, but Stiles was sure that Mama was getting sick. He didn’t know what to do about that, especially not knowing how bad it was, so he just squeezed his mama tighter than ever before.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles wobbled his way inside, carefully carrying the bucket of well water for Mama to boil. Mama used to get the water herself, but she had been weaker lately. Neither Mama nor Papa knew what was the cause, but in the mornings and evenings Mama’s hands could barely hold up a cup of tea. Besides, Papa said it was about time that Stiles did more around the house, since he was getting older.

“I was thinking we could go and visit my mother,” Mama said, folding laundry onto the table. 

Now that Stiles had gotten the water on the stove, he was working in his workbook again. His tutor kept giving him more and more work, and he was trying not to let it pile up. It was only worse when he did that, and it was easier to do it slowly over a few days then all at once before his next session.

“Alright, if you’d like,” Papa said, coming into the room as he ran a towel over his hands.

“Do you believe I should send a letter first, or perhaps they'd rather a surprise visit?” his mama asked, not looking up from her task.

“What do you mean by that, love?” Papa asked, and he sent Stiles an odd look, though Stiles was sure his face looked quite the same.

“Well, you know how much my father dreads surprises,” Mama said.

“Claudia, love, what are you talking about?” Papa looked even more worried than before, like he did late at night when he thought Stiles wasn’t watching him. 

“Going to see my parents, of course! Keep up, John,” Claudia told him, turning around with a huff.

Papa opened and closed his mouth, his eyebrows drawing down into a frown. Stiles had never seen him look so upset, not for years. Stiles’ heart went tight with fear. Still, his papa wasn’t answering, just staring at his mama like it  _ hurt _ to look at her, and Stiles took a deep breath. “Mama, Grandpap passed away.”

“What do you—Stiles, that is not something that you joke about!” Mama snapped, taking a step forward. Before she could take another Papa was there, grabbing both of her arms and stopping her. 

“Stiles, go entertain yourself outside,” Papa snapped. Stiles only thought of arguing for a quick moment before he scampered out of the house, his chest still feeling too tight.

* * *

“Mama,” Stiles called, stirring the stew.

They had been eating a lot of stew lately, at first because it was the easiest thing for Mama to make with her memory problems, and then because it was all Stiles  _ could  _ make. Papa had taken her all the way into town to see the doctor, but Deaton hadn’t been able to tell them anything. Not that Stiles thought he would. He’d never liked Deaton; the man had always stared at him funny when he saw him in town. Papa had been really angry when they got back.

He was still angry, and Stiles didn’t know how to make him happier. He kept going out during the day and helping with the sheep and the pigs, but his papa just stomped around all day long. Stiles tried making jokes, and singing, and even staying up all night to make his papa breakfast—something he hadn’t done in a long time—but even that hadn’t cheered his papa up.

His mama, though, was just sad. She’d sit around for hours on end. She would talk to Stiles if he tried, but she hadn’t started a conversation with either him or Papa for days now. Mama had always been so much like him, loudmouthed and excitable, that seeing her so quiet was scary. Scarier than knowing she was sick.

Stiles had taken over as much housework as he could, while still helping his Papa out and keeping up with his tutor. Now, Stiles did most of the cooking and the cleaning, but it didn’t bother him much. He knew that those were usually girl’s jobs, but he didn’t have a sister to do it. He really didn’t mind, as long as Mama got to rest.

“Mama?” Stiles called again, making sure the stew wasn’t going to boil over before he went to fetch her from her bed. Papa was going to be in soon, and Mama always liked to be up when he got home. 

“I’m up, stop hollering,” Claudia called back before he could step away from the stove, though her voice sounded weak. She always sounded weak these days.

“Papa’s going to be in soon,” Stiles told her, turning back around to the stove. “You should come to the table, I know that you like being up when he gets in.”

“Such a thoughtful boy,” Mama said, and Stiles listened when she walked into the room. Her steps were far softer across the wood than they normally would be, and Stiles had to push down the panic, had to calm down and—

He whipped around, eyes going wide when he saw Mama on the floor. Her eyes were closed, and she was sprawled out on the ground, her skirt splaying so high that her undergarments were showing. Stiles tried to steady his hands, but they wouldn’t stop shaking. The stew spilled over the edge of the pot as he removed it from the stove before running over to his mama.

“Mama?” Stiles asked, his voice hardly a whisper as he sank down onto his knees beside her. “M-mama, are you alright?”

She didn’t say anything, and Stiles’ chest felt so tight he could hardly breathe. His hands were still shaking, even as he pressed his palm against her forehead. He didn’t think she felt too warm, but he had no idea how warm she was supposed to feel. He tried to speak, to say her name, to call out to her or get her attention, but his throat was too tight and his mouth was too dry to force any words out. 

Stiles tried to take a deep breath, desperately wanting to settle his mind. He had no idea what to do. His hands hovered uselessly over his mama’s body. He choked on a sob and tried to force down whatever he was feeling so that he could get help...get help. Papa. Stiles jumped up, running out of the house and toward the field.

“Papa!” Stiles called, wiping at his face but not being able to stop the tears. “Papa!”

“Kiddo?” Papa asked, pulling Stiles into a hug the second he got close enough, pulling back only a little so that he could run his hands over Stiles’ face, brush the tears from his cheek. “Stiles, what happened?”

“M-Mama she, she...I don’t, I d-don’t—”

“Okay, okay, kiddo. C’mon,” Papa said, grabbing Stiles by the hand and walking him back to the house.

Stiles was still crying, and he had no idea how to make it stop. His fear made it hard to breathe. Papa wasn’t crying, but he also looked like he was freaking out. Stiles was terrified.

* * *

“Here you go,” Stiles said softly, not wanting to wake Mama in case she was sleeping. Stiles could hardly ever tell, because she spent almost all of her time with her eyes closed, but she would always wake up more confused.

Things came back to her during the day, the longer she spent awake. Usually, by the time that Papa came in for dinner—which had been getting later and later, but Stiles refused to bring it up—her memory would be a bit clearer. Stiles found himself wondering if maybe the reason that Papa was spending so much time outside in the field, was because he had to come home to a wife who didn't love him.

The thought always made Stiles sad.

Stiles placed the tray on the bedside table, careful to let it down gently. It held Mama’s breakfast, a meal that Stiles had cooked just like he cooked all the other meals since she fell. Everything got...bad, after that. Worse. Mama seemed to forget a lot of things at once, and some days were worse than others for her. Stiles liked the days when she remembered a little more, because the days she would forget were horrible. 

Today was a day that she forgot. 

“Well aren’t you just the cutest little boy,” Mama said, and Stiles had to bite his lip. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Stiles said, picking at his fingers in a nervous tick.

“And such manners! Your mama must be a proud woman,” Mama told him, and Stiles’ eyes stung.

“She is,” Stiles told her, before stepping away.

It hurt too much to keep looking at her, this woman who was his mama but wasn’t his mama, who would never be his mama again. He excused himself, rushing to the bathroom before the first sob tore its way from his throat. He pushed his fist into his mouth and tried to quiet his cries so that she wouldn’t hear.

His heart hurt, and his chest felt too tight for him to breathe properly. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it seemed impossible. He gasped for air, still trying to be quiet even as he cried harder. He wanted his mama, wanted to be pulled into a warm hug and have her tell him that everything was going to be alright in an even warmer voice. But she wouldn’t do that, maybe wouldn’t do that ever again. He knew that. But it hurt, every second, because his mama didn’t know who he was anymore.

That hurt more than anything else. Knowing that his mama looked at him like he was a stranger. He longed to see even a hint of recognition in her eyes, and every time he saw nothing there, he was disappointed. It was hard to be anything but sad, lately. He knew his papa felt the same way. It just hurt, so much, to know that his mama had forgotten who he was, had forgotten that she was his mama. 

Had forgotten that she loved him. 

* * *

“Papa,” Stiles said quietly, trying not to bother him.

Papa had been...distant, lately. Stiles knew it was because he was sad about Mama and didn’t want Stiles to see it, but Stiles was starting to miss him. Stiles had been busy, desperately trying to keep up with his tutor’s work while holding down the household. He was just lucky his mama had taught him how to do so much before she started getting ill.

Now, Stiles could take care of the house just as well as Mama always had. He could cook, and he could clean, and he could do everything to make sure Papa didn’t have to worry about anything else. Mama didn’t remember enough to worry, but it seemed like Papa was trying to worry enough for the both of them. 

But it hurt when Stiles went days without seeing him. He loved his papa so much, just as much as Mama, and it felt like he was losing both of them. He hadn’t had a hug from his papa in weeks, now. Not since the awful time Mama fell. 

“Papa?” Stiles said again, just a little bit louder. He didn't think his Papa would ignore him, but he couldn’t be sure anymore.

Thankfully his papa looked up at him, though he didn’t look happy. He never looked happy anymore, although Stiles didn’t think that he did either. The last time he went into town, the ladies cooed over him more than they usually did, giving him free fruits and berries and rolls from their tables. Stiles was thankful for their generosity, but more than anything, it made him sadder.

“I—I don’t want to feed Mama today,” Stiles whispered, wrapping his small arms around himself. 

Sometimes, Mama was mean. Stiles knew that it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t remember who Stiles was, but that made it hurt even more. Worse, though, was that sometimes Mama was rough with him. Neither of his parents had ever hit him before—Stiles was a well-behaved child despite some of his issues with being calm—and the first time had been a shock.

He hadn’t told his papa. He didn’t need anything else to worry about, not with his wife getting so sick. Stiles knew his mama never would have hit him, that the woman lying in her mind and clawing at Stiles’ arms wasn’t his mama, but...he had a hard time telling his heart what his mind knew.

“Stiles,” Papa began, sounding more tired than Stiles had ever heard him sound before. He hated it. 

“I’m scared,” Stiles said quietly, barely even breathing out the words out.

“I know it can be scary to see your Mama like that, but—”

“No, Papa I’m  _ scared _ ,” Stiles tugged his sleeve up, showing off the angry red lines that Mama’s fingernails had left in Stiles’ skin.

“Oh god, what—” Papa said, his voice trailing off into a sad noise that Stiles had never heard before. “Okay. Okay, you don’t need to feed her anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, lowering his head and not looking Papa in the eyes.

“Hey, hey it’s alright,” Papa told him, wrapping a heavy arm over Stiles’ shoulder and pulling him against his side. 

Stiles took a deep breath to stop from crying. He tried his best not to think about how this was the first hug he had gotten from his papa in weeks. It was okay, he had other things to worry about, and that was okay. Still, Stiles wrapped his arms around his papa’s waist and hugged him back, burying his face into his papa’s stomach.

* * *

Stiles was sitting on his mama’s bed, holding her hand loosely in his own. Sometimes, if he held too tightly, she would wake up. She had been mean lately, and she was getting steadily worse. Stiles didn’t think that his papa wanted him to know how bad it was, but he knew that he was waiting for the end. His mama wasn’t going to get any better. Stiles knew that without being told.

She was going to die. 

Stiles wasn’t sure if that would be so bad. His mama wasn’t happy, and she couldn’t remember  _ anything _ anymore. It was the worst when Stiles had to feed her, even if she wasn’t violent as often, because he knew she hated being so useless, that she hated not remembering anything. There were more days that she couldn’t talk, more days where she couldn’t get out of bed for anything.

Papa had been...short. Snappish. Stiles knew he was hurting, so he didn’t complain, but he missed the papa who would hug him tightly, wrap him up in his arms and hold him impossibly close just to get Stiles to laugh. He missed the papa who read him bedtime stories in silly voices and showed him how to tend to the sheep properly.

Even though Papa wasn’t sick, it felt like he was forgetting Stiles too. That hurt; it made his tummy feel sick and his chest heavy. Still, Stiles did all that he could. He cleaned and he cooked and he did his best to help Papa with the sheep. He read to Mama, keeping up a stream of chatter so it would never be too quiet for her—Mama used to hate the silence. He did his best to make her comfortable.

This was his favourite time. Mama slept a lot now, and when she slept, Stiles could pretend that nothing was wrong. Back before she got sick, Mama would sometimes take naps during the day, and if Stiles closed his eyes, he could almost imagine this was the same thing. If he couldn’t see her dark eyes or her chapped lips or her bruised cheeks, he could pretend that everything was okay. That she was fine. It was hard, with how loudly Mama breathed now—every breath sounded like a challenge—but he had always been good at pretending.

So he held her hand as gently as he could and didn’t say anything, in case it might wake her up. He sat as still as possible, trying his very best to make no noise, not even  _ breathing _ loudly. If Mama woke up and found him holding her hand, she might hit him. 

Mama took a long, deep breath, and Stiles closed his eyes, in case she was waking up. He didn’t like seeing her eyes when she was trying to figure out who he was. But instead, the room went quiet, quieter than it had been in a long, long time. 

Stiles took a deep breath, terrified to open his eyes, even though he knew what he was going to see when he did. He...didn't want to know. Wanted to pretend, like he had been this whole time, that his mama could get better. She  _ could _ . Stiles just had to hope enough, pray hard enough. And Mama would get better, and would remember him, and love him again, and everything would be okay because she was back.

He opened his eyes with foolish, foolish hope in his heart. Mama didn’t look any different than she had in the last few weeks: too thin, and skin too pale. But her chest wasn’t moving. Her, her chest wasn’t, wasn’t—

Stiles choked on a sob, trying his best to breathe through the burning pain through his  _ bones _ , as he leaned his head down and placed his ear over his mama’s heart. There was nothing, there was nothing because she wasn’t breathing, his mama wasn’t breathing, his mama—his mama was dead.

His mama was dead.

Stiles wasn’t able to keep the cry down, not a second time. He screamed, yelled and yelled and yelled until his papa came running in, and he was pulling Stiles into his arms even as Stiles fought against it, punched out and kicked out and tried to get away, get back to Mama, to hold her hand, to touch her or to see her but she, she—

“Shh, kiddo, shh,” his papa was saying, though he was crying too, both of them sitting on the floor. Stiles didn’t know how that had happened. 

Stiles was in his papa’s lap, his papa’s arms wrapped almost too tightly around him and holding him close. Stiles couldn't stop crying, could hardly  _ breathe _ over the pain in his chest, the tightness of his throat. Nothing,  _ nothing _ felt right, nothing felt like it was okay. His heart had never hurt so much before.

“Mama,” Stiles cried, his voice breaking as he tried to force the word out. “I love you. Mama, Mama I love you, please—”

Stiles knew it wasn’t any use, but he begged either way. He tried to get out of Papa’s hold, but he couldn’t. He stopped fighting only when he couldn’t anymore, heaving in hiccuping breathes that he didn’t want to take. He didn’t want to be without her; how was he supposed to be without her? Nothing would be the same, nothing would ever be the same, because his mama wouldn’t be there. 

She would never see him grow taller than her, and she would never see him take over the farm, or move out, or fall in love. Mama had always wanted to see him fall in love. She used to talk about it all the time, and now she would never get to see it because she wasn’t there. She would never be there again. 

It hurt. Everything hurt. His mama was gone, she was gone.

_ She was gone _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are much appreciated!   
> [my dreamwidth](https://lavenderlotion.dreamwidth.org/) and my [my tumblr](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

For a long time after her death, nothing changed. They continued on as they’d been, Stiles doing all the housework while keeping up with his studies, and his father working in the fields, tending to their sheep. A silence settled over their house that had never been there before, one Stiles felt heaviest in the late afternoons. That was the time his mother used to rouse, and Stiles would have to feed her.

He didn’t have to feed her anymore.

He wished he had never stopped, even if she had continued to claw at his skin.

Stiles missed his mother dearly. He never knew something could hurt so much. He went to bed with a heavy heart and woke up with the same heaviness, carrying it throughout his day, every day. Sometimes Stiles wondered if he would ever be able to take a deep breath again, or if it would hurt this much forever. Stiles didn’t want it to hurt forever.

But she was gone. Mama was never coming back, and it hurt, it  _ hurt, _ to know that. He would never see her smile again, never hear her laugh. He would never argue with her about how much salt she was putting into her soup, never watch her carefully water the plants along the front step. She would never tuck him into bed again, never tell him she loved him.

He would never again be able to tell her that he loved her, either.

Sleep was welcome, though not unmarred by nightmares. Sometimes he would dream of his mother clawing him open, calling him a monster, until he woke up gasping for air, his papa already holding him against his chest and running his hands through Stiles’ hair. Other times, the worst times, Stiles dreamt of his mother being awake again. He would dream of her smile, the feeling of being in her arms, of being loved.

Those dreams hurt the most.

He knew that Papa had bad dreams as well. Or he just didn’t sleep; Stiles wasn't sure. He did know that he never saw his father in bed, but Stiles thought it might make him too sad to sleep in the bed he used to sleep in with Mama. He didn't see much of Papa either way, anymore. Stiles didn’t like being home all day either, but he had to do the cooking and the cleaning, and he had to do the schoolwork that his tutor kept bringing. 

Papa got to spend his whole days out in the field, away from the rooms in which Mama had died. Stiles was stuck inside. He didn't mind so much doing all the housework. If he wanted to eat, he had to do the cooking, and if wanted the house to be clean he had to do the cleaning. His mama had taught him to manage a household; he was more than capable in that regard. 

But it was lonely, being inside all day without anyone to talk to. Stiles had always had Mama to talk with, the two of them spending their days laughing and teasing, happy to be in each other’s company. Even when they were quiet, Stiles knew that someone was in the house with him, and it made his days seem easier. Now, all alone, Stiles found the weight of the silence crippling. 

His papa was never around anymore, and slowly Stiles stopped waking up from nightmares with his father holding him. Stiles had no idea where he spent his nights, but it wasn’t in the house. Stiles was alone more often than not, and it made it hard to wake up each day.

As time went on, he began to spend more and more time in bed. Spending days working around the house in silence was too much. Stiles was too used to having someone to ramble to, his mama always close by and his papa never far away. They always listened when Stiles rambled at them about any subject he wanted, whether it was his schoolwork or the weather.

Now, Stiles had no one to talk to.

On the days that Stiles didn’t get out of bed, he didn’t have anything to eat, which also meant that Papa didn't have anything to eat. All Stiles had to do was imagine Mama’s sad face to force himself to get up. She wouldn’t be happy with how they were taking care of themselves, but Stiles had to tell himself that he was doing his best. He might not believe it, but no one was around to tell him was lying.

It only made it harder when he never saw his father. Every day, three times a day, Stiles brought meals into the barn for him. Usually, Stiles could just see Papa out in the field, a ways away, surrounded by hay and sheep. Stiles wasn’t sure if he was eating the food he bought, but when he left the next meal, the bowl or plate he’d set out was always empty.

So he kept on. He made food for himself and some for Papa, always bringing it out no matter what. Stiles knew it was something Mama would have done, and Stiles wanted to do good by her. 

Going into town had become an unpleasant experience. People watched Stiles with eyes full of pity, offering him meaningless words of comfort that did nothing to soothe the heartbreak he felt. The words of the townspeople were useless. They wouldn't bring his mother back, or make the hole in his chest feel any smaller.

Some of the women showed their pity by giving him handouts. Stiles would walk back to his home with his basket nearly spilling over, stuffed to the brim with loaves of bread and fruits that he didn't pay for. He never knew how to turn them down, so he took everything with a small smile of thanks, unable to muster up more than that.

Stiles often wondered if people gave him free goods because they never saw his father with him. He wondered if they thought his papa wasn’t taking care of him. He wondered what they would do, if anything, if they knew they were right.

Before Papa had started to spend less and less time at home, he would turn up his nose when Stiles returned home with a basket filled with more than they could have afforded. Stiles had wanted to say something nasty to him, but he bit his lip. Now, it didn't matter what Papa thought, because he was never around to see the groceries Stiles brought home. He never came inside form the fields, and he hardly ever talked to Stiles even if he did. 

The last time Stiles had gotten to hug him was before Mama passed away, and that was many months ago. His own arms didn’t do nearly enough to curb the loneliness he felt. He spent his days quietly, the silence of his house weighing down on him. He barely so much as hummed to himself; not without his mother's high voice to accompany him as he sang.

It felt like he had lost two parents at once. With his mama, he had seen it coming. He had known that she was going to die, and that she was going to leave him before it happened. Stiles had known, and while it hadn’t made it hurt any less, he had been prepared, in a way.  

With his father, Stiles had no time to try to prepare himself. Stiles had thought he would be around forever. Papa had always been so big and so strong that Stiles had been so sure nothing bad could ever happen to him, even with Mama getting sicker and sicker. He seemed invincible. Stiles missed that—missed him. 

He had been so sure it would be him and Papa. Without Mama, neither of them had anyone left to spend time with. It was that thought that Stiles had clung to in the end, when Mama had gotten  _ mean _ and hurt him. He had been so sure things would be okay, because he would still have his father, and he would make it all better.

Now, Stiles had no one at all.

* * *

When Papa started drinking, Stiles tried not to worry. It meant that he saw him more, since he would only drink in the house, late at night. Stiles was happy about that, really. Papa would sit with him during dinner and he...well, he wouldn’t talk back, but he would let Stiles talk  _ to _ him, rambling and on and on about whatever he could think up.

It felt so good, to fill the silence of the house once again. It made the tightness in Stiles’ chest finally loosen up, made it easier to breathe, if only during the little bit of time spent sitting at the table together. It wasn’t enough, but it was something, and that would have to be enough. 

And it was. Stiles tried to be happy with what he could get. If he only saw his father for an hour a night, well, it was more than he’d gotten before, and he would be thankful for that. He would smile and tell Papa about his day, even if he never really listened and never said anything back. He would sit across the table from his father and not reach out, and pretend that he was okay without his affection. 

But then Papa started drinking. It was only a drink with dinner, at first. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to be bothered when at least his father was spending time with him. Even if his father still paid very little attention to him, at least Stiles got to see him once a day. It could be worse. The attention was enough, already so much more than he had gotten from him since Mama passed away. 

Stiles told himself it was okay, it was enough, desperately trying to convince himself that it was the truth. If he lied to himself enough, he knew it would start feeling like the truth. Besides, Stiles would tell himself, Papa used to drink with dinner now and then, before. It wasn’t that different.  

At first was only one drink, then it was two. It still didn’t worry Stiles; Papa had never been much of a drinker before, but Stiles knew most hard-working men were. Papa had always said he didn’t like the taste, but Stiles knew how tastes could change—he used to  _ hate  _ beets and now he rather enjoyed them. Maybe his papa’s tastes had just changed. 

Papa’s taste hadn’t just changed, though. When he was having four, five, six drinks a night, Stiles couldn’t lie to himself. He  _ was _ worried. He had heard about Mr. Harris, who had been so nasty and so sad he had drunk until he couldn’t drink anymore—because he was dead. Stiles didn’t want his papa to die, too. 

And sometimes...sometimes Papa said mean things. Stiles didn’t think he meant them, like the way Mama never meant them, but they still hurt. Sometimes Papa called him useless. Told him that he took up too much space. Stiles knew they were just words spurred by the alcohol he drank at night, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Stiles had no idea if his father even knew what he was saying, and he had no idea how to ask about it. 

He didn’t know what to say. He knew that Mama would know what to say; she always knew what to say and do to make everything better. Stiles wasn’t good at making things better (he was never able to make Mama better, even though he had tried and hoped _so hard_.) He was good at talking, and he was good and cooking and cleaning, but he wasn’t much good at knowing the right thing to say. 

But Stiles couldn’t stop worrying, and he didn’t know what to say or who to say it to. He couldn’t tell anyone else he was worried. He didn’t really talk to anyone else anymore. The kids from town didn’t like to play with him now that he didn’t have a mom—they said he wasn’t any fun, the few times Stiles had tried. Besides, he had housework to do, and that took a lot of time. 

Stiles didn’t know what to say to make his father stop drinking, but he knew what to do: he poured out the bottles. He waited until Papa had already had seven cups—a lot, for the short time he drank them in—and then he went to the cupboard under the sink and pulled out all the bottles. Pouring them down the drain was easy to do, and Stiles smiled a little as he did it. 

Things would be better now. Papa wouldn't be able to drink, and he wouldn’t say mean things to Stiles. And, maybe, he would still sit with Stiles during dinner, now that he was used to doing it every night. Stiles could only hope that he would, that maybe they could sit together  _ after _ dinner, too. Maybe he would talk back to Stiles, instead of just listening when Stiles spoke.

Stiles was feeling rather proud of himself. He had been able to help Papa all on his own! Things would be better now. They had to be better. Stiles just wanted his papa back, and he knew he wouldn't get that if he kept drinking so much. Stiles turned from the sink with a smile on his face, carefully setting the now-empty bottles onto the counter, only to find his papa staring down at him.

Papa looked  _ angry _ . His face was even redder than it normally was after he’d been drinking. Stiles didn’t know what to say. His father’s hands were shaking and clenched into fists. His eyes were nearly closed, and he was breathing really heavily. Stiles was worried; he’d never seen Papa breathe so heavily before.

“What did you do!” Papa shouted, his angry voice filling the entire house. Stiles had never heard him sound like that before, and he took a step back. 

“I was trying to help,” Stiles said quietly, trying not to look scared. His papa wouldn’t hurt him. 

“You poured out my liquor!” Papa yelled, throwing his arms out in a wide arc as he gestured with his hands.

“Y-you were drinking a lot, and, and I was s-sca—”

“You had no right!” Papa was still yelling, his loud voice echoing the entire room, and Stiles didn’t know what to do make him stop. 

“I’m sorry, I-I was trying, trying to help,” Stiles eyes’ were burning and his chest felt too tight. His heart was beating faster than it ever had before. 

Stiles had just wanted to help. He wanted to make this better, to make his father better. He was so mean when he drank, saying the worst things, and Stiles never thought he would get mad. But now Papa was standing in front of him, his shoulders shaking with how heavily he was breathing. 

Stiles didn’t know what to do.

“You should have died instead,” he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth, and Stiles did stagger back that time, stumbling into the wooden end table. 

There was no way Papa meant that. He couldn't. But—but maybe he  _ did _ . Maybe he would rather have Mama alive than Stiles. Stiles knew how much Papa had loved Mama, and how sad he’d been ever since she died. Papa hadn’t gotten any better—Stiles hadn’t gotten much better either, but he cried much less now than he had been—so maybe he really did think Stiles should have been the one to die.

The wetness that had been gathering in his eyes began to spill over, and Stiles curled in on himself. He wrapped his arms tightly around his own stomach, trying his best not to make any noise. He knew Papa didn’t like him to be loud when he cried—he had told him that only a few weeks ago, when he’d said that Stiles wasn’t any help at all and Stiles had started to cry too loudly.

“Papa,” he said quietly, only a whisper, and then let out a sob.

“You killed her!” Papa roared, staggering closer until he was right in Stiles’ face. His breath smelled bad, and it stung Stiles’ nose.

The blow was too shocking to be painful. Stiles tumbled back, hitting the wall before his knees gave out and he fell to the floor. Stiles wasn’t sure if he cried out or not. He couldn't hear anything over the ringing in his ears and the terrified beating of his heart. He didn’t know what to do. He brought a hand up to his face. The skin of his cheek was warm and damp, Stiles’ eyes steadily leaking tears even as he tried to stop.

“ _ It was your fault _ ,” Papa said, his voice twisted and ugly.

Stiles waited for Papa to turn away before he did anything. His mind was racing, even as his heart felt like it was breaking apart. Everything hurt so,  _ so _ much. Not just his cheek, where he could still feel the heat from Papa’s hand, but his tummy and his chest, too. Stiles didn’t dare move until he heard Papa leave the house—he didn't always leave after he’d been drinking, but sometimes if he drank too much or if Stiles talked too much, he would leave and sleep in the barn.

It looked like Papa would be sleeping in the barn tonight, and for that Stiles was thankful. He didn’t want to see him again. His face hurt and his chest hurt, and he was still crying. Papa...Papa  _ hit _ him. Stiles had never been hit by either of his parents, and while he knew of some kids who had, he’d never heard of them hitting their kids in the face. 

Stiles didn’t even think he had been naughty enough for Papa to hit him, but maybe he had. It was clear now that pouring out his papa’s drink wasn’t a good idea. It only made him madder, and meaner. Stiles’ face still stung, even as he tried to wipe at his tears. They were coming too fast, though, and he couldn’t make them stop, no matter how hard he tried.

Well, if Papa didn’t want Stiles there, he wouldn’t be there. He nodded to himself, trying to push down some of the pain in his chest so he could focus on what he was doing. He stood up, looking around his home which now only felt like a house. Decision made, he began to look for a bag. He walked over to where his chest was, reaching in with shaking fingers. He was pretty sure he was still crying, though he tried to ignore it. 

There was an old sack they used to use when going to the market. It had a long strap that Stiles would be able to fit over his shoulder, and buttons to secure a flap over the opening. It would be perfect for what he needed.

Stiles filled it with clothes first. Underwear was probably the most important, so he took all the pairs he had. His pants would be fine, probably, so he only took three pairs. The bag wasn’t very big and Stiles was worried about filling it up too much, but he still took four shirts. He rolled everything up to make it as small as he could, thankful that the bag was so deep. Stiles almost forgot socks, but remembered to grab some before he left his bedroom.

He got scared when he went to the kitchen. God, Stiles had no idea why he was doing this. He...he should go unpack. He should go unpack and say he was sorry and ask Papa to love him again, but…Stiles wasn't sure Papa  _ would _ love him again. He might just hit him again, and Stiles really didn’t want that to happen. Or he would say more mean words, which Stiles didn’t want to happen either. 

They had bread that Stiles could take. He knew it wouldn’t last for long, but he wrapped it in a scarf either way. Fruit would be good for the morning over the next few days, so Stiles grabbed what they had on the counter still. Mama had long ago taught him a few different flowers and mushrooms he could eat, so if he needed to, he could always just survive off the land. Maybe.

Hopefully.

Stiles tried to stay as quiet as possible as he walked over to Papa’s bed. Stiles knew that Papa hadn’t slept in it in all the time that Mama had been gone, and Stiles hadn’t seen him going into the side table either. He opened the drawer carefully, his heart beating even faster than before as he reached for the coin bag Mama had always kept in there. 

With a deep breath, Stiles pulled the bag open, his eyes squeezed shut. He opened them slowly, letting out a big breath of air when he saw it was filled with coins. He wasn’t sure how much it was—he didn't want to dump them out and count—but it should be enough to help him if he needed to buy food after he left.

Because Stiles wasn’t going to stay if Papa didn't want him. He would rather be alone then stay with him, if his father hated him so much. Stiles took a deep breath, closing up his bag with the coin bag inside—he had pushed it all the way to the bottom to be safe. He told himself that this was a good idea. This was the best idea.

If he left, Papa wouldn’t be able to say mean things to him, and he wouldn't have to look at Mama’s bed every day and miss her. The silence of the house wouldn’t weigh down on him, because he wouldn’t be living in a house anymore. It...it would be okay. It had to be okay. Maybe if Stiles left, he would be able to smile again.

“Bye, Mama,” Stiles said softly, looking back at her bed. 

His heart felt tight, his mind filled with worry, but his cheek still stung from where Papa had hit him. He opened the door as slowly as he could, lest it make any noise, and he slipped out into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles did his best not to look behind him. He had to tell himself that this was the only thing he could do, that he couldn’t stay, not anymore, and he just had to keep going. He sniffed, his eyes burning even more than his cheek, but he pushed his chin up. The bag was heavy on his shoulder, filled with his clothes and food, and he had to stop himself from thinking about everything he had left behind.

The town looked so different at night. Darker. Everything was covered in shadow, and it made Stiles feel uncomfortable. Stiles had never thought that his town was scary; not during the day, when everyone was moving about. He had never minded coming into town to visit the market. Everyone was so happy, gathered together to share their goods. Mama had loved going to the market, collecting produce that she couldn't grow on her own, sometimes talking with the ladies from the town.

Stiles hadn’t loved going into town, even for the markets. The kids from town weren’t always nice to him, and even the ones who lived on farms like he did didn’t seem to like him. Scott had stopped playing with him years ago, when he started school and the other kids started calling Stiles names. Stiles had only ever gone into to town with Papa or Mama, usually both—being in town alone made it seem rather frightening. 

It didn't help that it was so dark. The moon and stars were bright in the sky, brighter than Stiles was sure he had ever seen them before, but it was still so dark compared to the usual brightness of day. Stiles kept walking, pushing down the little bit of fear that was slowly bubbling in his chest. He couldn't go back home, and that was okay. 

It was good. It would be good. It  _ had  _ to be good. Stiles tried to think about all the reasons that made leaving a good thing, if only so he wouldn’t have to think about how dark the town was. He no longer had to spend all day alone in his silent house. That was good. Stiles was sure he could smile more often if he didn’t spend all of his time surrounded by all the things that reminded him of his mama. Maybe the weight that had settled on his heart when she passed would finally ease up.

He also didn’t have to clean anymore! As much as Stiles didn’t mind doing the housework—he really did enjoy cooking—he was glad that he no longer had to clean. He wouldn't have to wash all of his and Papa’s laundry, and he wouldn't have to help on the farm or do his tutoring work. He didn’t have to listen to anyone else or do anything that anyone told him to.

Stiles would miss his papa. But he was used to missing his him, now. He didn’t want to leave, but Papa...didn’t want him anymore. Stiles didn’t want to stay if Papa didn’t want him. If Papa would have rather he died. Remembering what his papa said made Stiles’ heart ache. He scrubbed at his eyes, annoyed that they were stinging again. But he couldn’t stop remembering the horrible words Papa had said to him or the way his face had gone so red with anger. How his hand had felt against his cheek. 

And Stiles didn’t want to go back. Not if Papa was going to hit him again. He didn’t want to go back to a house that did nothing but remind him of Mama. Being in the house made him so sad, but he’d never been able to do anything about it. Papa hadn’t gone through Mama’s stuff, and Stiles hadn't been able to bring himself to do it either. It was all where she’d left it, untouched for months and months. 

It looked like she wasn’t even gone, and knowing she was but having all of her things around made it all hurt more. 

He couldn't go back. Wouldn’t. He would be okay. Stiles raised his chin, made sure the strap of his bag was sitting comfortably on his shoulder, and took another step. Then another, and another, until he was out of the town, until the packed-down dirt became looser and messier. Until there was nothing but trees and trees and trees, and Stiles felt like he could  _ breathe _ .

* * *

It had taken Stiles two nights to run out of food, and three nights to get to the next town. It was similar to his, though much bigger. The houses were nicer too; all lined with flower patches. Stiles crept through the front gates very late at night, the moon high in the sky.

It was so dark. 

The first night had been so terrifying that Stiles had cried and cried and cried. He had just wanted to go home, go back to his papa and crawl into his bed, but...he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t go home anymore. If Papa had been mad at him before, Stiles didn’t even want to think about how angry he would be now.

So Stiles had tried not to be scared of the dark. The trees stood high around him and made him feel safe. Protected, almost. It was easier to ignore his fear when he thought about something else, so Stiles had told himself the story of the magic woman, reciting it from memory again and again until he fell asleep.

He had woken up later, the sun high in the sky, and ate all the fruit he’d brought, though he didn’t eat any of the bread. He kept walking and walking after that, until the sun set once again. Then he finished off the bread and lay down to sleep, using his bag as a pillow. The next day, he kept walking again.

Now Stiles was hungry and thirsty. He hadn’t eaten since the night before, and his stomach had begun to grumble, when the sun was still high in the sky. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he was trying his best not to be scared. He couldn’t go home, not now, not anymore. He had no idea where home even was. Stiles had taken too many different roads, veering off the main road onto side paths as the sun beat down on him.

Wandering had been fun. Stiles sang during his trip, songs and tunes he remembered Mama singing around the house. It didn't hurt as much to sing songs learned from his mama now. Leaving really had helped him miss her less. Now, he just missed Papa. Not the horrible man he had become with drink, but the Papa who used to hug him close, who would always let Stiles crawl into his lap, no matter how big he’d gotten.

He missed the Papa that loved him.

But Stiles had to keep going. If Papa didn’t want him around, Stiles would have to find a new home, or else just live in the woods. Stiles knew that’s what people used to do, a long, long time ago; maybe he could do it too. 

But tonight, Stiles didn't want to live in the woods. He was hungry, and he wanted something to eat and fill the empty gnawing in his tummy. He didn’t know what he would do or how he would get food, but he walked into the new town under the cover of night. 

Footsteps as quiet as he could make them, he tiptoed through the town. He stayed to the shadows, hopping to and from dark spots. After spending two nights in the woods, Stiles wasn’t as afraid of the dark as he had been. 

He crept through the town, walking through backyards and peering into windows. It didn't seem like anyone was awake, which made Stiles wonder just how late it really was. It scared him, a little, how hard it was for him to tell time now. Stiles continued through the yards, his curiosity forcing him to peer through as many open windows as he could. Many of them had their blinds drawn, but Stiles tried to see inside anyway. The yards were all nice, backing onto a bit of forest. 

He breathed in as quietly as he could, then had to bite down on his lip to keep in the groan he wanted to let out. His stomach rumbled something ugly, and Stiles crossed his hands over his belly in a useless attempt to quiet his body. His head whipped up, and he looked around, desperate to figure out where the smell was coming from. He whimpered just a little under his breath, as the smell of freshly baked bread got stronger. 

Only two houses down, sitting in an open windowsill, Stiles could see just the end of a loaf of bread in the faint light coming from inside the house. He wanted it,  _ needed  _ it. He was so hungry. He’d never been that hungry before, and it hurt. He felt empty. Stiles swallowed the saliva that suddenly flooded his mouth and did his best to sort through his thoughts.

Stealing was bad. Stiles knew that. His mama and papa, and even his tutor, had all told him that. But Stiles was  _ so  _ hungry. All he wanted was dinner, and he didn’t have any food left in his bag. Only worn, dirty clothes, because he hadn’t found a river to wash them in yet. Or to drink from—he was thirsty, too.

All Stiles could smell was bread, warm and comforting and smelling like home. It wasn’t hard to follow the smell with his nose. His mama used to make the best bread, and Stiles hadn't had any of it in too long. This bread smelt so good. He kept walking, getting closer and closer. The night was quiet around him, with hardly any sound, so Stiles did his best to keep his steps light. 

Stiles crept through the backyard, drawing closer and closer to the open window. His fingers were shaking, tapping tunelessly against his thighs as his breath began to come out unevenly. His heart was beating in his chest with the thought of what he was going to do, but his stomach was too empty to feel guilty.

He stayed pressed up against the side of the house, taking small, short steps until he was just beside the open window. He peered around, then quickly looked inside. Stiles couldn’t see anyone, though there was a fire going in what looked like a sitting room. The house was nice, neat and tidy, but Stiles didn't look long enough to take in any details. 

Grabbing the loaf of bread—so hot he burned his fingertips, but he didn't care—he dashed towards the forest, still trying his best to make as little noise as possible. Once he got past the tree line, he slowed down. He was familiar with walking through the wilderness now, but he didn’t dare go too far in. He didn't want to get lost. Stiles made sure to walk straight, and when he finally found a large enough tree, he turned and sat, facing the way he’d just come.

He pulled his bag off of his shoulder, his hands shaking worse than before while his heart continued to beat too fast and too loud in his ear. Settling the loaf of bread in his lap, he breathed as deeply as he could. There was panic building in his throat, and a familiar feeling of fear clawing at this neck, but he did his best to ignore it. He hadn’t heard anyone following him, which meant that no one had seen him. He was okay. He would be okay.

The loaf was much bigger than he had thought at first, and without meaning to Stiles’ lips titled up into a small smile. He was going to  _ eat _ , after going more than a day without anything. He was so hungry that he just wanted to rip into the bread—still so warm where it was sat in his lap, smelling so, so good—but he waited, continued to breathe deeply until his mind was a little calmer.

He had to make it last. He knew that. Stiles carefully pulled a small section of the loaf away from the rest; much less than he had ever eaten for a meal before, but it left him with enough bread that he wasn’t scared about not having anything to eat for the next few days. 

He’d be okay. He would have to be okay.

* * *

Stiles slept in the same spot he had settled into to eat. He didn’t like walking through the woods at night. Even if Stiles wasn't scared of the dark,  _ because he wasn’t _ , he wasn’t going to walk through the woods by only the light from the moon. The trees were so thick here that he wasn’t even able to see the sky.

It was lonely, without the moon and the stars. 

When Stiles woke up, he made sure to only eat a small amount of bread. He knew that he had to save it, and he could only make it last if he was careful. Even eating a little bit of bread was better than nothing. He wrapped the bread carefully in the same scarf he had been using before. By the time he started walking back through the woods, the hollow feeling in his stomach was gone. 

The town was much nicer in the daylight. Without night casting all sorts of shadows to play across the streets, it didn’t look nearly as frightening. The sun made the colours of the town more vibrant, and all the flowers were much prettier in the daytime. It was still very early, and while Stiles didn’t know what day it was, it had to be during the week. Weekends always drew more people into town, and there weren’t many people walking the streets. 

Stiles didn’t think it was too early, given how bright the sun was, but he still tried to keep his head down. He didn’t know what would happen if someone saw him and realized he had run away. Stiles didn't know what people did with kids who ran away, but it probably wasn’t very good. They might even bring him back to Papa, and Stiles—Stiles wasn’t going to do that.

He wandered through the town, keeping his head bowed and his shoulders drawn in. Stiles knew he was good at making himself look small, and he did his best to curl up. He kept his eyes low, trying his best not to draw any attention to himself. Stiles had to hold his hands together to stop his arms from twitching and his fingers from shaking. He was so nervous, just walking around in the daylight.

All Stiles could think about was how dirty he must have been. He could feel the rough dirt that had made itself at home inside his clothing, and he couldn’t stop thinking about what he must look like. All he wanted was to take a bath and wash his clothes, but he couldn't do that; not unless he managed to find a river

He looked around, the urge to be clean suddenly all he could think of. It was heavy in his mind, pushing out any other thoughts as he tried to stop himself from itching. He held his own fingers tighter, looking over everyone in the town. He found a man, walking a little ways off the side of the street, and walked straight towards him.

The man was old, but he had a kind face. Mama used to say Stiles was good at seeing the truth in peoples faces, so he didn’t hesitate to go up to him. Stiles took a deep breath, his heart beating out of his chest as he approached the man.

“Do you know where I could find a river?” Stiles asked, and he listened patiently as the old man gave him directions, repeating them to himself three times so that he wouldn’t forget. 

He gave the man a smile and wished him well. Stiles muttered the directions to himself under his breath even as he headed away from the town. He seemed honest enough, and he wasn’t worried.

It didn’t take Stiles long to get to the river. He had to turn off the main road, making his way through the woods along a small, barely worn path. The river wasn’t large, but it was private, completely surrounded by high trees. 

The water was clear; Stiles could see the rocky bottom as he got closer. He looked around, nervous tension building in his belly as he took his bag off his shoulder, resting it against a large tree a few paces away from the water’s edge. He took off his shoes and jacket, leaving them with his bag. 

Careful to take small steps, Stiles picked his way between rocks and over branches. The ground wasn’t smooth here; the rough forest floor was slowly replaced by the rocky bottom of the lake. Carefully, he stuck his foot into the water, clenching his teeth at the iciness. He pushed through it, missing warm baths even more now that he was forced to bathe in the cold river. 

Stiles didn’t take off any of his clothes until he was fully submerged in the water. He had to wade out nearly half-way into the lake before the water touched his collarbones. First he peeled off his socks, glad that he wasn’t able to smell them through the water, and shoved them into his pant pocket so they wouldn’t get lost. He scrubbed his feet, struggling to keep his balance as he rubbed the dirt away. 

Next were his pants. He scrubbed the material together under the water, doing his best to get rid of the dirt that had dried and stuck to the bottom of each leg. He kept his undergarments on, though he made sure to scrub himself as well as he could. He wasn’t about to be  _ completely _ nude in the river. He tried to get his shirt off, but he struggled to get the material over his head, getting tangled in the fabric even more as he fought to get out. 

Once he was free, he scrubbed up and down his arms. His hands were filthy, nearly black with days of dirt and dust. He ducked his head under the water, scrubbing his cheeks as he held his breath. Resurfacing for air, he shook out his hair. The coolness of the water wasn’t so extreme now that he’d gotten used to it, and it felt refreshing.

He collected his clothes in a bundle and made his way back to the shore, feeling clean for the first time since he’d left his house. It was easier to breathe, now that the urge to claw himself out of his own skin had finally faded away. 

Stiles wrung out his clothes as best as he could before laying them out on the rocks, hoping they would dry quickly in the bright sun. He stood still for a moment, the nerves he had felt before his bath all but gone. He felt so much lighter, now. Letting the sun dry him, he turned his face toward its brightness, closing his eyes. He would get dressed in just a moment, but for the first time since he left he felt  _ calm _ , so he let the moment drag on.

* * *

He didn’t want to leave the small clearing he had found, but Stiles didn’t think he would be able to handle sitting around by the lake all day long. Instead, he dressed in his clean clothes, leaving the ones on the rock to dry further in the sun.

Stiles felt more comfortable walking into town, no longer hungry and knowing that he was clean. It gave him a level of confidence that he had been missing, and he didn’t curl in on himself as he walked. The houses were spaced farther apart than Stiles was used to, and he enjoyed strolling through the streets.

He was a little nervous that someone would see him and something bad would happen, but it wasn’t the same type of fear he had felt the day before. Now that he was clean, he didn’t feel like everyone was watching him. Stiles still stuck close to the edges of the streets, walking slowly and listening in on conversations. 

When he heard about a market being held the next day, he couldn't stop the smile that spread over his face. Stiles  _ loved _ markets. His mother had loved them too, and while Stiles hadn’t been to very many since she passed, he hoped he could love them again. 

He spent the rest of his time in town thinking about all the times he had gone shopping with his parents, but eventually those thoughts made him sad, and he made his way back to his tree. Going for a swim in the lake helped to clear his head. By the time he sat down to eat a small portion of bread, it was already getting dark.

The next morning he went into town as early as he could. His bag was on his shoulder, the bag of coins near the top so he could get to it if he wanted to buy anything. Stiles was trying his best to think of things he would need: Blankets, or a warmer coat. Maybe even shoes. Stiles knew the winter nights could get cold, and he was scared for the drop in temperature. 

Stiles took a deep breath as he walked into the busier parts of the town. He had never liked being around lots of people, but usually he was fine with his mama or papa by his side. Now he was alone, and he had to do his best to breathe evenly. 

He focused on getting to the tables, all set up in a line and filled with various things that the townspeople had made. Stiles hadn’t seen so many people out at once before, but the atmosphere was familiar. It helped to calm the beating of his heart, until he felt like he could take a full breath.

The tables closest to him were filled with knitted sweaters and scarves, rows and rows of socks. Stiles could see bright produce farther down, but he took his time looking at everything. This was always his favourite part of going to markets: looking at everything other people had been able to make or grow. He carried on slowly, but he stopped when a carving caught his eye.

The charm was beautiful. It was round, made of a light stained wood. It was carved to look like the moon, and Stiles thought it was a good likeness. The leather it was tied to was thick, and when Stiles ghosted his fingers across the material he was surprised at how soft it was. It looked like something his mother would have liked. Stiles had to blink away moisture from his eyes at the thought.

He stopped at another table. This one was filled with even more wooden carvings, some big and some small. They were all very pretty, and Stiles took a long time looking at them. Back home, no one had been this good at carving wood. 

The man behind the counter didn’t look very friendly. He was  _ huge _ . He had no hair on his head, and he was very, very big. His arms were enormous, his hands as big as Stiles’ whole head. He had no idea how a man that size had made something so small and so pretty, but he wasn’t going to ask. There was something about the man's face that Stiles didn’t like very much.

“I haven't seen you around here before,” the man said, taking a long look at Stiles that he didn’t like.

“I’m visiting,” Stiles told him, pulling his shoulders in to try to make himself look smaller.

“All on your own, little one?” he said, his voice dropping in pitch. Stiles shook his head, trying to still his trembling hands. “It wouldn’t do for one as pretty as yourself to be travelling alone.”

“N-no. No. I’m with my Mama and Papa. They’re with the horses,” Stiles told him, taking a step away from the man's stand as he continued to stare at Stiles. He didn’t like the look the man was wearing.

“You should stick close to them. You never know what type of people are out there, little one.”

Stiles nodded, scurrying away from the table and leaving the wooden moon behind. He didn’t need it, after all. He had never worn things like that, only his mama, and Stiles was sure that buying it would have just made him sad. 

Stiles looked behind him the entire time he walked through the town. He couldn't run; that would make him look even more conspicuous. His stomach felt all knotted up, and he couldn't stop chewing on his bottom lip in worry. It wasn’t a good feeling, and Stiles didn’t like it one bit. He kept his head down as he continued to walk, not pushing through the crowd but trying to make good time. He wanted to get back to his tree.

He glanced behind him. He didn't see the man from before, but his stomach still felt sick. He darted into someone’s backyard, even though he knew that was dangerous during the day. He crossed his fingers, hoping that everyone would be out at the market and no one would see him hurtling through their backyards. 

He did his best to remember the way to the river, and he stayed alert, tripping over his own feet as he went. By the time he got to his tree, deep enough into the woods that he finally felt safe, he was out of breath, his heart still beating too fast in his chest. He slumped to the ground, unable to get his breathing under control for a long time.

He—he would be okay. He just had to breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles stayed three more days by the lake before he left. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about the man from the market. He didn’t venture into town again, but walked through the woods, sticking close to the main paths to keep from going crazy at having nothing to do. He wanted to go back—he knew he needed more food to keep him going—but he really didn’t want to risk seeing that man again.

Instead, Stiles packed up his bag with his now-clean clothes, eating an even smaller piece of bread than he was used to, because he was beginning to run out. He had no idea how long it would take him to get to the next town, or what would happen on his journey, but he couldn't bring himself to go back into town. Not with the strange man's words still echoing through his mind.

Once ready, Stiles made his way down the small trail and back towards the main road, turning away from the town. He closed his eyes, ignoring his growing hunger and the way the sun was beating down on his face. Stiles had no idea when he would make it to another town, but he had to hope it wouldn’t be too long. He didn’t have any water or anything to keep some in, and while he had a few berries and fruits in his pack, he knew he’d run out soon. 

The sun was warm as he walked. The trees had thinned out, so there was less and less shade for Stiles to take cover in. The landscape was dry, with stretches of sand around him, and he hated it. He hated how it looked like nothing he was familiar with. 

He was sweating, his face covered in a layer of dampness that made him itch far worse than being covered in dirt had. He could smell himself. Some part of him knew he wouldn't be able to last long in this heat, given how tired he was after half a day. 

Stiles walked until the sun went down. Then, straying a short distance off the packed, sandy road, he sat down to rest on a patch of burnt grass. He was exhausted, and the small bit of bread he had left was nowhere near enough to push back his hunger. He was thirsty, too—thirstier than he had ever been. He sucked on a few berries before eating them, letting the tart juices sit on his tongue for long moments before swallowing.

That night, Stiles fell asleep exhausted and hungry.

He woke up much the same.

Stiles didn’t spend any time lying around before he got back up. He had no bread left, only a handful of berries, and he knew he wouldn’t survive another night. He didn't want to die. So, despite the heat of the sun already bearing down on him, Stiles got up and continued his trek.

He walked, hopeful and desperate in equal parts. The thought of finding water or shelter gave him the energy to keep walking, his stomach gnawing at nothing. He just needed something,  _ anything _ to keep him going. He'd be fine as soon as he came across some water or shade.

Stiles walked, and walked, and walked. He sang to himself, his throat dry. Each line was forced from his lips, but it was the only thing keeping him sane and centred. Stiles felt like he would fall apart if he didn't do something to keep himself together. It terrified him.

The breath left him in a rush when he finally saw something up ahead. He could barely make out the shapes of a town, buildings of differing heights appearing as just blurry shapes. He blinked, once, twice, then rubbed at his eyes, but it was still there. Stiles didn't increase his pace, but his heart lifted, feeling lighter as excitement began to replace the emptiness in his tummy.

This town looked different from the last one he had visited. It wasn't surrounded in trees like he was used to, and his heart began to beat faster in panic. He wouldn't be able to hide here, not without walking a fair distance to get out of sight. Still, he was exhausted and so, so thirsty. He couldn't bring himself to turn away from the buildings, which were taking on more and more shape.

He hardly felt like he could keep going, but he pushed on, desperate now that he had seen the town. It was hard to breathe, and he was still sweating, his entire body aching. The hunger had only gotten worse, and he couldn’t sing anymore—his throat wouldn’t let any sound out.

Luckily, no one seemed to be out and about. Stiles walked down the small decline towards the town’s edge, trying to push down his excitement. He had no idea what would happen once he finally got into the town. For all he knew, someone would see him and he would get in trouble. He was sure by now that children were not meant to travel alone without anyone knowing. Still, he wasn’t going to turn away. 

He couldn’t. 

When he got closer to town, it was clear that there weren't any trees to hide in, but there were large gardens surrounding the rows and rows of houses, with large hedges running alongside them. They weren't nearly as good as woods he was used to, but they were something. As Stiles made his way further, the loose dirt of the road tightened and became more compact, turning into a firmer, darker street-top.

Stiles bore to the right, walking to the far side of the hedges, stepping into the town once he could be hidden from sight. He could only hope that he wouldn’t be seen. He crept further and further into town until the buildings looked less like shops or taverns and more like houses. 

Sticking to the far side of the hedges, he peeked through gaps in the branches, quickly darting between the larger spaces. It was still so bright out that it couldn't be past midday, but the town was so quiet that it made Stiles nervous. He couldn’t help but wonder where everyone was, and why the town seemed so deserted when there were so many houses. 

Stiles couldn't bring himself to spare it much thought. Instead he kept walking, trying to peer into windows from a safe distance. But he couldn’t see anything from the hedgerow, and at a rather loud grumble from his stomach, he steeled his nerves and made his way towards the closest house. His heart raced in his chest, but his hunger was strong enough to push him forward, and it gave him the courage to walk right up to the window.

Peering in, Stiles frowned at what he saw. There was no one inside. Stiles could see through the window that the front door was thrown open. He knew that was weird, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he saw a basket of vegetables sitting on a table, only a few paces away. 

Familiar guilt raced through his gut and made his stomach feel like it was knotting up. His heart beat faster, terrified at the thought of being caught. But he was so hungry, so thirsty. He was desperate for something, anything to eat. He was dizzy, and everything was too bright, and he was getting more and more worried that he would faint. 

Stiles walked to the back door, turning the knob as fear welled up in his throat. But he didn’t stop. He pushed the door open as slowly as he could, looking around the room as he stepped inside. No one was there. The front door swayed in the breeze. Stiles shivered, an uneasy feeling climbing down his back.

His hunger spurred him on, and he walked straight to the table that held the food. The bowl of vegetables was still fresh: carrots and stalks of celery and long cucumbers. Stiles mouthed watered at the sight, and even though guilt hung heavily over him, he grabbed a cucumber and bit into it. 

Water exploded over his tongue. He let out a sound that was more of a sob than anything else, and took another bite. He hardly finished chewing before taking another and another, grabbing a second cucumber the moment he was finished with the first. 

Stiles felt a relief so strong he thought he could cry, and his knees gave out. Crashing to the floor was painful, but he hardly felt it. His eyes stung with moisture, and he blinked quickly to keep himself from crying. He was going to be  _ okay _ . For today, for tonight, he was going to be okay.

* * *

Stiles didn't waste any time sitting around before starting to stuff his bag full of all the vegetables that were left. A sharp ache shot through his stomach when he got to his feet, and he pressed his hand against the stitch in his side. Compared to the gnawing hunger that he had felt for the last day, he couldn't bring himself to be upset by this new pain.

Once he had filled his pack with all the food he could fit, he looked around the house. It was rather plain: two beds on the far side, and a bath sitting near them. It wasn't as large as his house had been, but he had seen even smaller houses in the last town he’d visited.

Half of the house was neat, with one bed nicely made and the table dusted, but the rest was still messy, as though whoever had been cleaning stopped halfway and left. It made Stiles frown as he looked around, and his tummy went tight with a feeling he didn’t like.

There was a silence in the air that made him uneasy, a cold rush running down his spine. He didn't linger long, only taking a quick look through the few cupboards to see if there was anything else he could take with him.

He might have felt horrible for stealing, but it felt too good to not be hungry anymore. Knowing that he was going to be alright for  _ days _ kept him from putting everything back and begging the empty room for forgiveness.

Stiles was about to let himself back out the way he’d entered, but something stopped him from leaving. The unnatural silence that had unnerved him in the house seemed to lay over the entire town. Stiles' feeling of unease only grew with the realization. His heart was beating loudly in his own ears as he crept up to another house and peered inside. His sense of foreboding only grew stronger when he saw that it was empty as well.

Pushing the door open, Stiles carefully looked around before he stepped inside. Like the last house, this one was completely empty, though the main table was set for a meal. Plates and cups were sitting out, and when Stiles walked closer, he was surprised to see the bowls filled with stew. There was no steam rising from the them, though. Stiles frowned down at the bowls of cold food.

Stiles couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness, but the possibility of more food overpowered both his guilt and his unease. He walked further into the house, finding half a loaf of bread that was only a little hard to the touch. It was soft enough that Stiles would be able to eat it, so he placed it in his bag. The pang of guilt he felt was weak, overpowered by the relief he still felt at having something to eat.

He left the house after that, giddy on the rush of finding food, knowing that he wouldn't have to feel hungry for days. Telling himself this would be the last one, he carefully entered a third house, the uneasy feeling only growing worse. There was no noise, either outside or within the houses. He was so used to the sounds of nature, especially after the nights he had spent in the forest, that this unnatural quiet was unsettling.

When he finally walked into the next house, the first thing he noticed was the puddle of water surrounding the stove. He walked towards it. Sitting atop the metal was a large pot, like the one his mother used to heat stew and boil water. As he got closer, all he could see inside it was a smoky residue and a multicoloured sheen across the metal.

Stiles had only seen that once before, when he forgot that he was boiling water. He’d been trying to calm Mama down when she was having a fit, only to find when it was over that he had burned all the water. He hadn't even known could happen. Papa had explained to him that if he boiled water for too long, it would boil over before all turning into smoke.

It looked like that was what had happened here, and the very thought made Stiles even more nervous. His skin itched with the need to run.

He took one more look around the house, and he couldn’t help taking the pile of apples he saw on the counter before leaving. He all but ran across the yard—the tightness in his belly didn’t go away until he had passed the large hedges and could only see the houses between gaps in the branches. Even at that distance from the house, he still felt uncomfortable.

Some instinct was telling him that whatever had happened to the town was unnatural. Whatever had been done, whatever made everyone leave, made Stiles' skin crawl. He knew that it was wrong, that it was  _ evil _ , in a way that Stiles didn't fully understand but could feel in his bones anyway. His breathing evened out as he got further from the town, his heartbeat calming down until it was beating normally.

As soon as he hit the tree line he turned, walking horizontally to the town until he passed the very last house. The second he stepped past that last house, sound returned—the rustle of trees in the wind, the chirping of birds, the thump of his bag every time he took a step. A shiver ran down his spine, making him feel even worse than he'd felt inside the town. He kept walking, not daring to turn back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need some encouragement to get this fic finished up! Tell me what you're liking about it most?


	6. Chapter 6

All he did was walk and sing and make up stories. Stiles had always been good at making up stories. It was something that he and Mama used to do at nights, sometimes. They would lie together in bed and tell each other sillier and sillier stories until neither of them could stop laughing. Papa would always wander in from the barn, wondering what could possibly have them laughing so hard. Of course neither of them had ever been able to tell him, and when they finally did Papa never found it as funny as they did.

Stiles closed his eyes against the burn of tears. Thinking about Mama and Papa hurt. Stiles was beginning to think that it would  _ always _ hurt; in different ways, but no less. He missed his mama fiercely, but it was a calmer pain, one that settled under his skin and was laid to rest there. Papa was different. When he thought of Papa, and of everything that had happened after Mama passed away, Stiles got mad. He couldn't help it, and he couldn't stop it.

All that Stiles knew was that missing Papa hurt him differently than missing Mama did.

* * *

Stiles, thankfully, still had a pouch full of coins. Now that the nights had slowly begun to get colder, he was glad that he hadn't used any of his money on buying the charm that reminded him of Mama. There had been so many sunrises since he left the empty town that he had lost count. Stiles thought that it should worry him, but he figured it was alright. He never planned on going back home, so there was no reason for him to count how many days he had been gone.

By the time he reached the next town, the nights were beginning to get so cold that the clothes Stiles had were not enough. The daytime was still plenty hot, the sun beating down on him and making him damp with sweat—which was one of the reasons Stiles got so cold at night, he figured.

So arriving in another town was a relief. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with this town. It was lively, filled with people. 

Stiles had stumbled across a little stream just before he hit the town's edge, and followed the water deeper into the woods until he felt like it would be safe to bathe. Once he was clean and had laid his clothes to dry—he was incredibly thankful that no one had stolen any of them yet—he headed towards the town.

This town was definitely nicer than the last. Not only could Stiles  _ hear _ , nothing about it made him feel sick,.. The streets were busy, filled with people walking around. Stiles figured it had to be the weekend; that’s when most people went to town.

There were booths lined up, and Stiles eyed them curiously. Unlike the first town he’d found, he didn't feel the need to hide as much. Stiles wasn't sure why, but this town made him feel safe. He happily walked the streets, looking at everything laid out. A lot of it was food, vegetables and cuts of meat, but there were other things. Small knick-knacks and carvings, blankets and socks that people had made themselves.

Stiles stopped at one stall selling coats, all too aware of how the temperature was dropping at night. The lady standing behind the table looked old, but her eyes were kind and her hair was cropped short. She wasn't really smiling, but her face was pleasant enough. Stiles' chest felt warm looking at her, and his heart thumped happily inside of his chest.

“And who are you?” the lady asked. Her lips turned up into a smile when she addressed him. Stiles smiled back, tangling his fingers together.

“I'm just passin' through, ma'am,” Stiles told her, looking over a few of the jackets that were hung up. They looked like they would be warm, wovenknitted heavily and securely. He pointed to the one he liked the most, a dark grey wool, and asked, “May I touch this?”

The lady nodded, taking a step back. Stiles browsed through the booth’s wares, running his fingers over the scratchy fabric. It felt warm against his hand, and reminded him of something he had seen Mama make for Papa once. His smile fell, his chest going tight.

“How much for this, ma'am?” Stiles asked politely, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Ah, are you interested in buying it?”

“Yes, please. My Mama gave me some coins. Papa said I should learn how'ta pay on my own.” The lie fell off his lips easily. Stiles wondered when lying had become something he could do with ease, when before he had always tumbled over words that were untrue.

The lady’s smile got softer somehow, and she nodded. She leaned in close, murmuring to Stiles, “For a good boy like you, it'll only cost you a hug.”

Stiles' eyes went wide, and he nodded before he could think anything of it. He let the lady gather him into her arms; she squeezed him tighter than he had expected her to be able to. Her arms were tight around him and he heard her take in a long breath, her nose tickling his forehead. She pulled back and grabbbed the jacket, handing it over to Stiles.

“Thank you,” the lady said, though her smile looked sad. “Now, don't be a stranger, all right?”

“No, ma'am,” Stiles said, taking the coat when she held it out.

He stayed and talked with her for a little longer, but after a while he told her that he would have to go find his mama. He thanked her a few more times, tripping over his words in his haste to get them out. The smile on his face was so wide that it hurt. Stiles really couldn't imagine a stranger giving him such kindness. Yes, after Mama passed away the women in the town had nice, but...it never felt real.

If a person gave him one cucumber the next would give him two carrots, and it went on like that. It had always felt like the women from town were trying to outdo each other, to make the others look bad. This was different. Stiles could feel the women's kindness like a fire inside his chest, and it meant so much more to him than the women from his old town. He was so happy he was skipping. He probably looked a loon, but he didn’t really care.

He stopped after he heard a few ladies cooing over him. Stiles knew that new people in a town were often the topic of gossip. His mama had told him more than once how annoyed she got over the town ladies talking badly about people they didn't know. Stiles didn't want to be the topic of gossip. It probably wouldn’t be good if people started talking about him.

So he walked the rest of the way out of town, controlling his smile and walking calmly. Thankfully, no one followed him, and he trailed off into the forest quickly, walking just within the tree line. He kept straight until he found the stream, then followed it just like he had before. He was happy to find his clothes laid out on the rocks just as he’d left them. As soon as he got to his stuff, he tried his coat on.

It fit like it was made just for him, and he couldn't help the happy laugh that bubbled up out of his throat. He hadn't laughed in so long, and it felt nice. So nice.

* * *

Stiles woke to the sun bright in his eyes. He yawned, stretching up from where he’d fallen over, the coat still wrapped around him like a blanket. He blinked, then pinched his wrist and let out a loud yelp. His eyes focused on the large, panting creature in front of him. Stiles took a deep breath, but despite the creature’s sharp teeth and its bright red eyes, he didn't feel any fear.

Really, Stiles didn't know much about dogs or wolves. He figured that this creature was probably a wolf, but it was sitting on its back legs like he thought a dog would. Either way, the creature was very big. Its head was even higher than Stiles' when he sat up straight. Slowly, Stiles held his hand out in front of him.

The wolf inched closer, its eyes narrowing as it sniffed Stiles' palm. Its nose was cold against Stiles' hand, and the wetness tickled, but he tried his very best not to move at all. He took a slow breath, letting it out softly as the animal watched him with very bright eyes. Slowly, very slowly, Stiles moved his hand to the top of the wolf's head. Only when his hand was between its ears did the wolf lean down, bending its neck so Stiles' hand rested more comfortably on its head.

Stiles giggled loudly, petting the creature. “You're so nice, aren't you?” he asked, and the wolf looked up and licked his face, causing Stiles to laugh so hard he fell backward.

The wolf let Stiles keep petting it, edging closer until it was sitting right in front of him. Its fur was warm and soft and Stiles cuddled up, hugging it as he continued to stroke its fur. The wolf didn't seem to mind. Stiles sat there petting it for so long that he nearly fell asleep. He would have, maybe, but then the wolf moved, its ears perking up. Stiles hadn't heard anything, but really big wolves probably heard more than boys did.

The wolf turned, giving Stiles one last look and barking quietly before it started to walk away.

“Bye, bye!” Stiles called, watching as the animal ran off. A smile was stuck on his face.

* * *

Stiles went into town after two days. He hadn't been sure about going back—he had no idea what he would tell anyone if someone asked him who he was or what he was doing—but the town was so nice that Stiles hadn't been able to stay away. The wolf had come and sat with him each day, warm and patient and very soft. It had eased something in Stiles' chest, making him feel a little less lonely for the stretches of time the wolf spent with him.

But eventually Stiles’ curiosity had won out, and he walked back into town.

It wasn't nearly as busy as it had been the first time he went, and he took his time looking around. The houses were very nice, though he noticed that there were a handful that were bigger than the rest. Stiles had no idea why, but he felt comfortable inside of the town. It was such a stark difference from the  _ wrongness _ of the the last town that it left him feeling dizzy.

The streets were calm, and there was a pleasant atmosphere to the entire town. Stiles found it hard not to smile as he walked down the street, taking in all the pretty gardens. This town was nicer than the last and nicer than his own. It seemed to be full of life. He continued walking down the streets, taking everything in with curious eyes.

There was a horse tied up to a post, not something unusual for a town that housed travellers. He walked up to look at the large animal. Stiles had always been so good with their sheep and their pigs, able to calm them down if they were agitated, even when Papa wasn't able to. The horse regarded him with beady eyes, snuffling quietly as its tail swished back and forth.

The horse’s nose was soft against his palm, and the animal snuffled against his skin. Stiles giggled quietly, stepping closer so he could pet the horse's mane. The hair was coarse under his palm; Stiles was careful to only stroke it with the flat of his hand, not wanting his fingers to pull at the hair. The horse was so tall that Stiles had to really reach up to pet the creature, but he didn't mind.

“And what do you think you're doing, son?” a man asked, startling Stiles so badly he nearly tripped as he stumbled backwards. He was older; his face was creased with soft lines, and his eyes were completely white. He spoke with an accent Stiles had never heard before.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” Stiles said, backing away quickly. “It, it—I wasn't, not doing  _ anything _ , I promise, I'm so—”

The man chuckled, but not unkindly. “It's quite alright, kid. My Lucinda is a beauty, of course you'd want to give her a nice petting.”

“Lucinda?” Stiles asked, his heart rate slowing just a little. The man seemed nice, judging by the way the horse was letting him pet her. He had a kind face, too—Stiles was beginning to think that everyone in this village did.

“Lucinda is this pretty girl here,” the man told him, patting the horse’s side before moving closer, all the time keeping a hand on the animal. “And I am Deucalion. May I ask your name?”

“S-stiles,” he stuttered, tripping over his name and flushing because of it. “It's Stiles, sir.”

“A fellow with an interesting name. I like you already,” Deucalion said, and it made Stiles smile.

The town kids used to make fun of his name, but maybe Deucalion knew what that was like, since he had a strange name as well. Stiles looked back up at the man, but Deucalion wasn't looking at him; he was staring straight ahead. Stiles didn't say anything about it. He didn't know why the man wasn't looking at him, and he didn't want to be rude. Deucalion, Stiles realized now that he really looked, was very handsome. His cheeks warmed at the thought. He had no idea what to say, and he swayed back and forth as he watched Deucalion pet his horse.

“Young kids still like money, don't they?” the man asked. and Stiles wrung his fingers together as he tried to think of something to say, wondering if the man's question meant more than just what he was asking. “What a silly question, of course they do. How would you like to make a few coins, Stiles?”

“Oh, uh...”

“Don't sound so nervous. Lucinda here needs a good cleaning. I have a stable rented out for her, and they've assured me they have everything I would need,” Deucalion explained, his voice going softer. The smooth rhythm of it made Stiles feel a little more at ease, washing over him and making him smile. “If you give her a good cleaning and an even better petting, I'd gladly pay for your services.”

“I've never cleaned a horse before, sir,” Stiles told him, rubbing at the back of his neck. Sure, he had groomed the sheep and the pigs, but he didn't think that would help him when it came to grooming a horse.

“Are you good at remembering steps?”

“Sometimes?” Stiles admitted quietly. He was pretty sure he'd be able to remember the steps to cleaning a horse, but he couldn't ever remember the English his tutor had taught him.

“Sometimes is better than never, isn't it?” Deucalion asked him, and Stiles nodded his head. “Remember, boy, I can't see a thing. You've got to tell me if you have an answer for me.”

“Oh!” Stiles said, startled. He blushed darker, embarrassment making his tummy squirm. “W-well, yes, I do think I could remember to clean a horse. That's an important thing to remember, sir.”

Deucalion's smile was pretty as it pulled his lips up and made the lines around his eyes look even deeper. “Excellent.”

* * *

Cleaning the horse had been...calming, if nothing else. Stiles felt like he was able to breathe. Some of the tightness that he’d been carrying in his chest since he first left fell away as he ran the brush down the horse’s body. It felt good to be caring for an animal again, and Stiles let himself soak in the feeling as he played through all the happy memories that came with it.

He had gotten lost in the repetitive moments. Lucinda, as far as Stiles could tell, was an excellently behaved horse. She stood very still so Stiles would have an easier time brushing her, and she even lowered her head when Stiles was cleaning her hair. Her entire body was so soft and warm under his hands that he had never wanted to stop. She would neigh and stomp occasionally, but she was quick to be soothed.

When Deucalion came back, it felt too soon. Stiles could see that the sun had gone down, and he realized with a start that he was working by firelight. He wasn't sure it was smart to have a fire going where there were so much hay and so many animals, but he was thankful for the light. Wrapped up in shadows, Deucalion didn't look nearly as nice or as handsome as he had earlier.

“Hello, sir,” Stiles said, giving Lucinda a few final pets before stepping way. Deucalion was holding a long, skinny stick in his hand, and when Stiles spoke he turned towards him.

“Evening, Stiles,” Deucalion said, tapping his fingers along the stick. “And how are you?”

“I'm amazing,” Stiles told him, a hint of longing in his voice that he wasn’t quite able to push down. His whole afternoon had only made him miss Mama and Papa, but it was a good missing, one that didn't make him want to cry. “It was really nice, looking after Lucinda. She's a very good girl.”

“You hear that, baby?” Deucalion asked, stepping forward and somehow stopping directly in front of the horse’s face. “Stiles here thinks you are a  _ very _ good girl.”

Stiles blushed, even though he wasn't sure why, and the earlier feeling of bubbles in his tummy came back. “Thank you for letting me do this, sir.”

“I'm in town for three days,” Deucalion said, resting his hand on Lucinda's side. “How would you like to do this every day? Same rate of pay and all.”

Stiles wanted to say yes. It was on the tip of his tongue to do so, and an excited sort of nervousness settled in his belly before reality caught up with him. He let his head drop between his shoulders, and his nails dug into his palms where he’d clenched his hands into tight fists.

He still didn’t know if it would be safe to stay. All he knew was that he had run away from home, and the stories he’d been told about little boys running away always ended badly. If Stiles stayed, would things end badly for him? Would...would they make him go back to Papa?

“I—thank you, but I won't be able to do that,” Stiles said, letting out a breath of relief when Deucalion didn't say anything further. He wasn't sure how he would explain himself.

“Now that is a shame,” Deucalion told him, and Stiles said nothing for a long minute.

“Do you need help going anywhere?” Stiles asked, and felt a little relieved when Deucalion told him no.

He bid his farewells, keeping his hand clenched tightly around the coins that filled it. Stiles strolled through the town, and he didn't feel any hint of danger. He knew by now that he didn't like the night so much, especially on times like tonight when the moon was small and dim in the sky. He wished, suddenly, that he could stay, that he could go back and take Deucalion's offer and maybe find the old lady who made him his coat. 

He wanted to stay. But there was a nervousness in his chest that made him feel light-headed, and he knew it would only get worse. No matter how badly he wanted to stay, something didn’t feel right, and his skin itched with the need to  _ leave _ . 

Stiles kept walking, letting the darkness of the forest swallow him up. 


	7. Chapter 7

The best part about walking from town to town, in Stiles' opinion, was getting to see so much. He got to see things he never had before, and he got to experience the way the seasons changed in a new way. In his town, nothing really changed, and the weather mostly stayed the same. Yes, it got colder during the shorter days and warmer during the longer ones, but it never got very cold like Mama used to tell him it could. Here, out in the wild—as Stiles took to calling it—it  _ did _ get cold.

He was very glad he had gotten that coat. Stiles was having to double up on clothing just to stay warm enough, and even so, sometimes the wind would seep into his bones. He was starting to get worried about it, but it was something he tried not to think about too much. He just kept walking and walking and walking in hopes of coming across another town to stay in.

Stiles whistled tunelessly, mostly to give himself something to focus on as he kept walking. His feet ached, as they always did lately. The break that he had taken in the last town had been nice, and he certainly felt more refreshed—and better fed—than he had since he first left home. Now he was walking with a little more enthusiasm, still riding the emotional high the town had given him. He had no idea why, but the place had made him feel happy.

Today, though, was a colder day, and Stiles kept his arms wrapped around himself as he walked. The weather was only made worse by the lack of sun; light clouds covered the sky and made everything darker. He shivered, the cold burrowing under his skin and settling into his bones. Trying to focus on anything other than his numbing fingers, he looked up and saw a small, white fleck falling towards him.

Stiles laughed loudly, watching a single snowflake swirl down from the sky. He ran forward, his sack slapping against his hip as he chased after the fleck of white. Stiles had only seen snow once before, and he was overjoyed as he ran after the flake. He caught it on his tongue, his eyes crossing as he tried to watch it melt. He giggled, turning around with his tongue still held out, bouncing excitedly on his toes as pride welled up. ‘ _ Mama’  _ was on the tip of his tongue, but the word died in his throat when he was met with nothing but open forest and a winding dirt road.

Stiles stumbled back, tripping over his own feet and landing hard on his bum. Pain burned up his throat, and his eyes stung before the tears began to leak. He wrapped his arms around his own waist, trying desperately to curb the overwhelming loneliness he suddenly felt. He let out a choked sob, his chest so tight that he couldn't even breathe. Stiles rocked back and forth, trying desperately to push down the despair.

He was so alone.

* * *

It was cold. It was always cold now. Stiles had no idea where he was, but he wasn’t too upset. He never knew where he was. He hadn’t been to town for a while—six nights, if the rocks he was beginning to pile up were to be believed. Stiles figured they were; he always remembered to add a rock to his pile.

It didn’t always bother him, not being able to count the days as they passed, but sometimes he felt like he was losing control, like everything was slipping through fingers. Sometimes, when it was dark and Stiles was alone, surrounded but nothing but trees and trees and trees, all he could think about was everything he’d left behind. 

And he was scared.

He would have to go back to town soon. The nights were getting cold, too cold. Stiles was shivering, though it felt like he was always shivering now. It was alright when the sun was still up: not too cold, at least warm enough that the layers of clothes he bundled himself in could keep him warm. The coat he’d gotten from the last town had helped a good deal, and kept him warm up until the snow started.

Now it wasn't enough. The fabric would get damp if it snowed too much, and at night the chill would set into his bones. He could never get away from it, no matter what he did, and it  _ hurt _ . It always hurt. Stiles closed his eyes as his fingers began to go numb. He wanted his mama. He wanted his papa, even if he said mean things and hit Stiles. Anything would be better than this.

Stiles was so,  _ so _ cold. He was wearing every single pair of socks that he had, layered over and over as he had done with his pants and shirts. He had the wool coat wrapped around him like a fleece, but it wasn’t enough. 

Nothing was enough. He had no idea what to do, and he was getting worried. He was too cold. His body had stopped shaking and time felt it was standing still, stretching out forever and ever. He couldn't move; his fingers and his toes and his arms and his legs had all long since gone numb. All he could think about was the fear gripping at his chest.

He was going to die, Stiles thought idly, though the thought didn't scare him.

He closed his eyes, letting out a long breath as he let his body slump against the tree he was laying on. Stiles wasn't scared, not when he knew he would get to see Mama again. All he wanted was to see Mama again.

A light flashed behind his eyes, so bright that Stiles' eyelids looked white, and he blinked them open slowly. He couldn't see anything: the clouds were too dark in the sky for the moon to light his way. The forest seemed so much darker now, without Mother Moon watching over him. His next breath curled upwards, hazy steam rising in front of his eyes.

His hands were burning, so badly that he thought he was going to cry. It took him a while to notice, over the pain, that the burning also meant that he could  _ feel _ them. There was a warmth in his chest, deep and overwhelming and something that he had never, ever felt before, burning away like a fire.

His hands began burning even worse than before; it felt like he had stuck them into too-hot water. He had no idea what that meant, if it was bad or if it was good, and he was almost too scared to look down. Stiles knew he wouldn't be able to do anything if something was wrong, but he figured if he was going to die anyway, he might as well see.

Stiles shook his head, sucking in a shuddering breath even as he raised his shaking hands. He closed his eyes, hesitantly focusing on the warmth he had felt flicker in his chest,  _ tugging _ at it when he was able to feel its burn  _ inside his mind _ . He gasped, his breath rushing out of him as warmth spread over his face and his hands. Stiles opened his eyes, slowly, his stomach tight with nerves at would he might see.

He let out a long, relieved breath when he saw a small flicker of fire sitting in his palm.

* * *

Stiles hadn't fallen asleep until the sun was coming up and the fire in his hand had flickered out and never came back. He’d stuck his hand right into the flame and watched it lick his skin, but felt nothing but the warmth that spread through his entire body.

He had slept throughout the day, drifting off as the sun rose, no longer able to keep his eyes open. By the time he woke up again, it was nearly dark and  the sun was setting behind him. It wasn't as chilly as it had been the night before, but when Stiles pulled out a few fruits to eat and bit into a raspberry, it was frozen. He sucked on the fruit, letting it soften on his tongue before biting down, the juices flooding his mouth.

After he had eaten, he looked back down at his hands. A spark of wonder lit up his chest and made his hands tingle. He had no idea what had happened the night before, and he had no idea how to make it happen again. All that Stiles knew was how it  _ felt _ : his entire body tingling with warmth, the feeling spreading out from his chest. It was like the fire had come from his heart, and even though Stiles knew that was impossible, it felt right as soon as he thought it.

He tried to focus on that feeling, trying his hardest to feel it again. The warmth in his body had felt so good against the biting cold, but no matter what Stiles tried he couldn't imitate the edge of desperation that he’d experienced last night. He had been so sure that he was going to freeze to death, and he’d accepted that as his fate. The fire in his palm felt like it had been a reaction to that, a part of him that he hadn’t even known about reaching out to keep him alive.

Stiles took a deep breath, focusing on the small spark he had felt. It wasn't there, not quite, but there  _ was _ something. Barely a flicker, come and gone so fast that Stiles nearly missed it completely, but it  _ was _ there. He focused as intently as he could, closing his eyes and looking inwards, trying to locate the small flash of warmth that he could feel uncurling.

He laughed, delighted, at the flicker of fire he could now feel in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he did his best to clear his mind so he could focus on the feeling of heat against his palm that he’d had the night before. It had felt like magic, like the stories his mother used to tell him. It had been as warm as all of his papa's hugs and all of his mama's kisses.

He focused on that feeling, on the warmth that he could feel slowly spreading through his whole body. A smile came to his lips as a flicker of light lit up in his palm. Stiles watched with wide, awed eyes as it danced over his skin, never feeling anything other than comfortably warm. He shivered, cupping his hands around the small flame.

The fire didn't burn, and Stiles was more confused about that than why he had a little spark of fire in his palm. He blinked, his mind whirring as it tried to catch up and make sense of what he was seeing. There was fire. In his hand. There was fire in his hand that didn't burn _. There was fire in his hand that didn't burn, and Stiles was creating it _ .

Shit.

His eyes widened, and he let out a small, excited noise even as he forced himself to lean forward. The fire in his hand felt like it was heating him from the inside out, burning and burning under his skin, his chest all but on fire, growing warmer the more he focused on one spot inside his chest. He watched, excitement and joy and adrenaline all rushing through his body, as the flame grew and grew and grew, until it was so bright that he could see the ground around him and watch shadows dance across the cold grass.

A noise bubbled out of his throat—a laugh, maybe—but he was too overwhelmed for it to sound joyous. The little speck of warmth in his chest felt like it was consuming him, like it was going to burn him from the inside out, but didn't  _ hurt _ . None of it hurt, and Stiles couldn't understand why. The fire that was sitting in his hand got brighter, throwing shadows everywhere. It grew and grew, until flames were licking across his fingers and his palm, rising so high he had to tilt his head up.

It was amazing.

* * *

It took Stiles a while before he adjusted his sleeping. For a few days, he slept during the daytime and stayed awake all night, so fascinated by his fire that he never wanted to go to sleep. He found it more fun to watch it at night, so he could see the way the shadows it created danced across the forest floor. But Stiles knew that if he wanted to move on to another town (which he did, he was going to get low on food one day), he would have to be awake during the day.

The first time he rose with the sun, it felt like a victory. These were things that he had never had to think of before, when he lived with Mama and Papa. They would tell him to go to bed and tell him when to wake up; he never slept during the day unless he was taking a nap with Mama. Stiles was glad when he managed to get his sleeping pattern right.

He whistled as he walked. He could still feel the warm glow in his chest, and it burned away all the loneliness he hadn't been able to stop feeling for so long. It was refreshing, not feeling so sad. Of course, he could still feel the loss of his Mama and Papa—it was a loss that Stiles figured he would always feel, no matter what—but it wasn't as bad as it had been, before.

Stiles walked along a broken-up path, enjoying the way that snow was beginning to stick to the ground. He had never seen that before, and he thought the way the snow sparkled in the sun was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. Since the little spark of warmth in his chest had grown, he was no longer worried about dying in the cold. It kept him warm all night long, buzzing under his skin and making him feel safe. Sometimes it felt like it was wrapping around him in the most amazing hug that he’d ever gotten.

He wondered if there was anything else that he could do. He could make fire, that he knew, and he had the warmth inside his chest, but...he wondered if he could do  _ more _ . Stumbling to a stop, he noticed the way the snow was covering him. It only took him a moment for a thought to form...he figured it would be easy enough.

Stiles focused on the warmth inside his chest, pushing at it as it grew and grew and grew. He focused until it was all he could feel, until it was so warm that he was sweating. Then he took a deep, grounding breath and  _ pushed _ . He focused outwards, imagining the warmth seeping out of him slowly, forming the thought as he willed it to happen. The warmth left him, making Stiles gasp, and when he looked down he saw golden light spilling from his body and skipping over the grass, melting the snow as it went along.

Stiles laughed, throwing his head back and then flinging out his arms as he spun in a circle, overjoyed. He felt better than he had in so long, knowing that he had this magic inside of him. It was amazing, a feeling that made him feel weightless and invincible and a thousand other emotions he couldn’t name. He was riding the high when a thought struck—a particular line of the story his mama used to tell him.

Stiles stumbled back a step before he fell, landing hard on his bum. He...he didn't want it to be true. He didn't even want to  _ think _ it, as if just having the thought would make it real. But, there was a part of Stiles that knew; it had known when his mama forgot him, when she stopped loving him, and then when his father drank to ignore him, when his  _ papa  _ stopped loving him, when he left.

He knew. He had killed his mama.

* * *

Stiles didn’t stand up for a long time. So long that the sun went down and the moon rose, and then the sun came up again. His thoughts were whirling in his head, spinning and spinning and spinning. Even though Stiles was sitting down, he still felt dizzy. It was all so too much; Stiles had no idea how he was supposed to keep going now that he knew the truth.

Papa had been right. It had been his fault.

He wasn't sure if he slept on the ground. All he knew was that he didn’t feel like he could have stood up. He was sure that his knees wouldn't be able to hold him even if he tried. Stiles wasn't even sure why he would try, what the point would be. His mama was dead because Stiles had killed her, and his papa hated him because he had known all along.

His heart had never hurt so much. Not even when he first lost Mama, or when Papa hit him. This ache was deeper, somehow, and it filled Stiles' whole body until he could feel nothing else but the breaking of his heart. It felt like he couldn't breathe, the way his chest was constricting. He cried and cried and cried, tears falling from his eye, unable to stop them.

It took him a long time before he had a thought that wasn't,  _ It's my fault that Mama is dead, no wonder Papa hates me, I would hate myself, I  _ **_do_ ** _ hate myself _ . Finally, he lay down. The grass was frozen beneath his head, but he didn't care. The cold was welcome, deserving, and Stiles allowed it to seep under his skin until he was shivering so much it hurt. His teeth were clacking together, smacking against one another as his entire body continued to shake.

The last time he was this cold, Stiles had nearly died. He wondered if that would have been so bad. It couldn't be worse than feeling like this. When Stiles' fingers got so cold that he could no longer feel them, the warmth that he had been pushing down rose in his chest and travelled down his arms and legs, wiggling under his fingers and across the balls of his feet. Stiles let out a broken sound, curling onto his side as the warmth spread through his whole body.

He fell asleep after that. Stiles had no idea how long he slept for, but waking up did nothing to ease the hurt inside his chest. Rolling onto his other side, he kept his eyes closed and ignored the gnawing in his stomach. He didn't want to eat, and he didn't want to move, and he didn't...he didn't want to go on. Stiles had been so scared of dying when he thought he was going to freeze to death, but now it seemed like a welcome reprieve from what he was feeling.

All he could think about was the magic woman story and how Mama had told it to him again and again, always knowing what would happen. Now, it seemed so mean, that she would leave Stiles with this. That she would tell the same story, every night he asked, knowing that one day she would be gone.

But...there was more to the story, more than just the magic woman giving her power away. Mama had always stressed, during every telling of the story that Stiles could remember, that even though the magic woman knew she was going to die, she was happy because her son was going to live happily. That only made Stiles' heart heavier. All along Mama had known that she was going to leave them, and she had never said anything.

He had no idea how she could have always been so happy. The easiest things to remember about Mama were her smile and her laugh. He could hardly remember any times that she was in a bad mood, at least before the last few months of her life. And entire time, she had known. Stiles missed his mama every second of every day; even though time had passed, he hadn't stopped missing her. He knew that his papa missed her too. Stiles couldn't understand why she wouldn't have told them.

Stiles sat up. If his mama died for him, he was going to make sure that she hadn’t died for no reason. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he didn't want his mama's death to mean nothing. She was too good, deserved too much for that. Stiles took a deep breath, trying his very best to push down the crushing feeling in his chest and the burning in his eyes.

He stood, feeling the weight of everything he now knew, the weight of the responsibility he now felt. He let the warmth left by his mama spread through his body, welcoming it for what it was—his mama's love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is officially finished! I am so happy to be done writing it after so many months. Uploads will continue to be once a week <3


	8. Chapter 8

It took Stiles another two towns before he stopped being angry. His magic—or his spark, as he had begun calling it—was a constant flicker of warmth that sat inside his chest. It was the  _ only _ thing that kept him going. It reminded him of his mama, of the warmth of her love, and after a while, he began to smile when he felt it. While  _ knowing  _ hurt, it hurt less as time went on.

Stiles wasn't angry anymore. Being angry at Mama hurt more than missing her did. It took some time, but Stiles was eventually able to replace his anger with acceptance. Mama had loved him. That Stiles knew as a fact, as a core of his being, and something he would never forget. Mama had loved him so much that she had died for him. Sometimes Stiles wished it had been the other way, because he loved his mama just as much. But she hadn't given him a choice, and Stiles tried his best not to dwell on it.

Instead, he kept walking, going from town to town. He wanted to make himself worth everything that his mama had given up, but he wasn’t sure how. As Stiles walked into another town, this one made up of dirt roads and smaller homes, he let hope climb up his chest at the possibility of finding  _ something _ . 

He didn't feel as nervous to explore as he had last time. Stiles had no idea how long it had been since he left Papa, but he knew it had to have been a while. The thought made his chest ache, but it was similar to the ache he felt when he remembered Mama.

Walking into the town was nice. Stiles liked being alone, but he also liked the liveliness of the towns he passed through. Being around other people was comforting, in a small way. While he never felt lonely with the warmth in his chest, he found it interesting to watch others and to be around them.

Stiles had been lucky to find a river only a bit of a walk outside of the town. He had warmed it with his spark, touching the surface of the water and pushing out, urging his magic to seep into the water and heat it until it was comfortably warm. He walked into the river clothed, as he often did, undressing under the surface as he scrubbed himself clean.

Stiles had long since accepted that he would never be really clean again, but he did his best with the lake water. He knew that his hands were stained with dirt and that his feet would be permanently brown, but he didn't care. He figured that came with travelling. Stiles knew that he was getting older. People didn't treat him the same way they once had, no longer speaking to him as though they had to simplify their words for him to understand them. It could have been because he was a stranger, but he rather thought it was because he was beginning to look older.

Stiles knew that sometimes boys who were too young to live on their own but too old to do nothing were employed as messengers. It was easy work: all you had to be able to do was ride a horse and remember directions given to you. If someone needed a message sent to another town but couldn't go themselves, they at least knew the way to go. The brother of a boy from his village used to do just that, and he always came back looking dirty and worn.

While Stiles didn't have a horse, no one ever asked after him as long as he kept his head down. In the last town he was in, he’d managed to make a few coins by helping a lady with her flowers, which had all died. Stiles had overheard her bemoaning the state of her garden. As soon as he'd heard her, a line from his mama's stories came to him, about how the magic woman could create flowers.

Stiles had offered to help the woman, telling her that he always helped his mama with her flowers. It had taken a couple of days and a lot of concentration, Stiles had been able to get the flowers looking bright and healthy, pushing his spark into the petals and the stems until they were blooming. The lady had been so happy, and it had made Stiles feel amazing, like he was doing something good.

At first when she tried to pay him Stiles had turned down her offer, but she had been insistent and he hadn't argued after his initial refusal. He still had more than enough money—Deucalion had given him a very large bag of coins for taking care of Lucinda—but he knew it was better to have more than enough than none at all. 

He had left after that, not wanting to stay long after using his spark the way he had.

As he entered this new town, Stiles kept to the sides of the streets, though he strode with purpose. People didn't question you if you looked like you belonged. He walked with his back straight and eyes ahead, keeping out of everyone's way, even as he kept his ears trained to the surrounding sounds. It wasn't that he wanted to eavesdrop, but he had learned that it was safer to be aware of his surroundings.

The streets weren't very busy, and Stiles walked through them unobserved. Thankfully this place didn't have the same unnatural feeling as the empty town had, but it was still unusually quiet. 

He walked by a row of houses, sticking to the dirt road as he passed. There were two ladies sitting up ahead, and Stiles stuck close to the house as he walked closer—ever curious. He could hear them talking to one another, but he couldn't yet make out what they were saying. He walked as quietly as possible until he was close enough to listen.

“I don't know what to do,” Stiles heard one woman say, and when he walked closer he saw that she was crying. The other lady said something quietly, too low for Stiles to hear, and he crept closer so he could hear the first woman keep talking. “She's so sick. I don't want Angus to have ta’ shoot her, not after all she's done for us. She ain't even a full horse yet, Catiline!”

Stiles’ spark suddenly flared so hotly that it hurt; his chest felt like it was going to explode with the sudden pressure. He staggered back a step, nearly falling over his own feet before he was able to right himself. Luckily he hadn't made any noise. He snuck backward, hiding in the shadow of the house. Breathing deeply, he did his best to calm his racing heart as his spark whirled inside of him.

* * *

Stiles waited until it was dark to go back into town. His spark was urging him forward, so excited that his fingers were sparking with electricity—something he hadn't even known that he could do. The town was quiet, blanketed in a soft hush, and Stiles let a small smile pull at his lips. This place was peaceful. He didn't get the same feeling of rightness that he had gotten in the town where he'd met Deucalion, but it was still a nice feeling.

Most of the houses were spaced far apart, but somehow Stiles knew he would be okay to walk down the street. He was sure that he wouldn't get caught, and while he didn't know  _ how _ he knew that, it felt true. Stiles walked and walked until the houses got farther and farther apart. The sight of them was familiar, and Stiles felt a pang of longing. These were farmhouses, away from the city, just like the one that Stiles had grown up in.

He pushed on, ignoring the hollowness in his chest and instead focusing on the spark that was lighting him up and urging him forward. It pulled him along, a feeling that Stiles couldn't even begin to describe. It stopped abruptly at the front path of a worn-looking house, and Stiles edged around to the side of the building on instinct. He could hardly see anything, with the moon’s light hidden away behind dark clouds, and his breath steamed in the air as it rose up in front of him.

His spark was getting brighter under his skin, urging him closer and closer to the wooden building. He felt exposed, walking from the edge of the house to the front of...what looked to be a stable. Stiles peered in, his gaze skipping over empty stalls. He couldn't see anything, but still his spark was pulling him forward, and Stiles watched with wide eyes as the latch lifted itself. 

Taking a deep breath, he slowly pushed the door open.

As he stepped into the stable, his spark burned so brightly that his skin began to glow. Soft white light spilled from his bare hands, casting a glow over the dirty floor. He walked forward slowly, keeping his eyes open as he took in the state of the building. It looked well-worn, but also well cared-for. Stiles had only ever been to a stable once, the time that he and Scott had snuck onto Jackson's property to look at his new horse.

That stable had been much like this one. Stiles walked further in, his magic only going wilder as he went. He had no idea was going on, and he pushed through the growing unease. By the time Stiles got to the last stable, his heart was beating so loudly that it was all he could hear, but finally his spark calmed down. He peered in, and almost let out a surprised shout when he saw the animal that was lying on the floor.

Stumbling backward, his heart rate got impossibly faster. He sucked in a breath that got caught in his throat. His magic rising within him in indignation, and he broke out into goosebumps. He knew that he had to help the poor horse; this was what his spark had been leading him to. 

Slowly, he walked up to the stall, standing on his toes to peer over the high door. Lying there was a horse, stretched out on the dirty floor, mane splayed out in a tangled mess. Stiles pulled the stall door open carefully, but the animal didn't react. He could  _ feel  _ the horse’s...presence, something that had never happened before, and his spark reached out curiously.

He made as little noise as possible as he stepped into the stall. The last thing he wanted to do was startle her—since this  _ had _ to be the horse that the women earlier were talking about. He tiptoed closer. When the horse didn't react, Stiles walked over to its side, still moving slowly and breathing as calmly as he could. His heart was racing, but he tried his best to ignore it, focusing on the animal in front of him.

He crouched down as he reached out, making sure she could see him as he went to touch her. She made a noise, something that sounded hurt. Stiles cooed, “Shh, pretty girl,” as he ran a hand down her flank, doing his best not to flinch when he felt something  _ wrong _ .

He let his spark leak out, his magic gently running over the animal. Stiles flinched, so badly that he stumbled back, when he felt something dark. His magic recoiled from the feeling, and he took a deep breath before he moved closer, his heart panging in sympathy. The horse was still just lying on her side, snuffling weak breaths out through her nose.

She was pretty, though small. Her limbs were twitching, and Stiles heard the whine in her laboured breathing. His heart ached at seeing an animal in such obvious distress, and he reached out again. This time, he was ready for the spot of darkness. He had no idea what he was doing, but his spark was still whirling angrily under his skin, demanding that he fix what wasn't right.

His spark was so bright that the light from his hands was nearly white, and he laid both hands directly over the darkness he could feel. He pictured the light his body was creating sinking in, and watched with wide eyes as it did just that. When the darkness pushed  _ back _ , Stiles could feel it throughout his entire body. 

It only made him push harder, taking a deep breath and pulling at the spark in his chest, urging it to burn brighter and hotter as he pushed against the evil that was clinging to the horse’s spirit. Stiles gritted his teeth, the muscle in his neck straining as he forced his magic out of himself and into the horse, filling her until there was no room for anything other his own magic. 

Suddenly, he cried out and fell back onto his butt, his breath leaving him in a rush as his spark  _ snapped _ . The feeling tore a whine from his throat as tears burned in his eyes. His entire body seized with pain and he watched the horse shake, fear gripping his heart and making him light-headed.

The spot of warmth in his chest was barely flickering, weaker than it had ever been, and Stiles was breathless. He felt raw, torn open in a way that he had never felt before and never wanted to feel again. The horse was moving, slowly. He watched as the creature struggled up to her feet before shaking her body out. She sneezed, and the sound made Stiles laugh, a smile curling his lips even as exhaustion pulled him under.

* * *

It was still dark when Stiles woke up. He was surprised to see the horse standing over him, almost protectively. A surge of warmth travelled through him. Stiles looked up at the creature, his smile pulling at his cheeks as he reached out. The horse snuffled, pressing her nose against Stiles’ palm.

He struggled to his feet, using the animal to help him stand. His knees were shaking, and he nearly fell back over. Exhaustion, heavier than Stiles had ever felt before, settled in his bones. It felt like he didn’t even have the energy to yawn. He leaned against the horse’s bulk, resting his forehead against her neck.

When he was able to, he searched for his spark. It was flickering weakly inside of his chest, and even just feeling for it made his bones ache. Still, he urged it upwards, wincing as it tugged sharply. He let it wash over the horse, slipping across his skin and over her flank, a soft, barely-there glow of dim light. Stiles relaxed when he felt nothing other than his own magic and the presence that was the animal in front of him.

Giving himself another moment, he slowly pet the horse’s side as he pulled his magic back in. It took a few more minutes before he was able to stand on his own. When his knees would hold him up, Stiles stumbled his way out of the stable, not wanting to be seen by anyone. He set out for the closest cluster of trees, needing the safety that being surrounded by foliage would bring him. 

Stiles found a tree large enough to recline against, and he lay against it as exhaustion settled over him, pulling him back to sleep the second he set his head against the tree’s bark.

* * *

Stiles was walking through town two days later, when an older lady stepped into his path. He startled, and stumbled back a step in an effort not to walk into her, his heart beating wildly. He’d never had someone approach him like that; he had no idea how to react. Stiles tried for a smile, though it felt weak, and did his best not to look guilty.

The woman stared at him with wide eyes, and her lips were curved into a smile that made Stiles uneasy. Suddenly she stepped even closer, and said, “Thank you,” before taking his hand. As soon as their fingers touched, his magic pulsed under his skin, straining forward as if curious. He gasped, sensing an answering presence from the woman. “Thank you, little spark.”

“What—” Stiles began, fear climbing up his throat as the lady held on tighter.

“My magic wasn't nearly strong enough to cleanse that poor creature. The evil was going to eat her up, and it was breakin' my heart to watch. If it wasn't for you, that wench would'a had her husband put the creature down,” she explained, and Stiles nodded even though it felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. He was uneasy, and his fingers shook as she continued to hold them.

“I—” he tried, but nothing more came out. He had no idea what he was supposed to say.

“Here, take this, please.” The lady put a bag in his hand—a large one—and he could hear the clink of coins as it hit his palm.

“Ma'am—” Stiles tried, a protest ready on his lips, but she shook her head firmly.

“You take this too.” She placed a compass next to the bag, and Stiles had a strange moment of shock when they both fit onto his palm. “You follow this compass, and it'll always bring you to someone who needs you.”

“I don't understand,” Stiles said helplessly, watching with wide, terrified eyes as the lady backed away.

“You have  _ power _ , my boy. You are one of the moon's own, and you should do good with it.”

Stiles’ heart ached, fiercely, but he nodded, closing his fingers over the worn metal. He still felt like he couldn't breathe, anxiety and fear rushing up his chest and closing his throat. It made his lungs feel too tight. But as he watched the lady walk away, something like hope settled carefully inside of his chest.


	9. Chapter 9

As Stiles walked and time continued to pass, the temperature began to rise. The nights didn't get as cold as often, and it had been a long time since he had to stay up all night to keep himself warm. Stiles was endlessly fascinated by the different towns, the subtle differences and similarities they all had to one another. But what he loved, more than anything, were the different people.

It didn't seem to matter if Stiles stayed in a town for a day or fortnight; he almost always seemed to talk with someone. After so long wandering on his own, he didn't carry the fear that he used to. In the towns he went to he worked, taking jobs both mundane and magical. He had quickly gotten better at accepting payments, when he started growing out of clothes faster than he could acquire new ones. 

It had taken a while, but Stiles had learned to love travelling. He experimented with his magic and met interesting people. It was his life now, and it wasn’t going to change anytime soon. He loved the things he learned and the people he got to talk to. It helped to ease his loneliness.

The first time that Stiles had fish was at a small town which the compass had directed him to. At first, Stiles had kept the compass in his bag, not believing it to be what the older lady had claimed it was. He had paid it no mind, throwing it in with his clothes after changing that last night before he left the town. It had been a while later that he happened upon it again, digging through his bag, and noticed that the needle was going crazy.

Stiles had raised it out of his bag slowly, apprehension colouring his movement. When he’d gotten all the way out of the bag, his entire body had gone warm. The sensation radiated from his hand. He had no idea how he knew, but Stiles could feel the  _ truth _ within the magic. He knew that the compass would do exactly what the lady had told him.

Following the compass had been an easy decision.

The compass had led him so far that he’d run out of food two nights before coming across a town. By the time the ground he walked on turned from loose dirt to tightly packed road, it felt like his stomach was gnawing at itself. It was so reminiscent of the early days of Stiles' travels that it left something bitter and unpleasant in his throat. He did his best to push the feeling down, along with the hunger.

This town was much busier than the last one Stiles had been to. Stiles walked the streets and did his best to blend in. He often wondered what he looked like to others, and if people saw him as he  _ really _ looked. Stiles could always feel his spark, warm under his skin. While it flared brighter when he was doing something with his magic, it was always a small flicker inside his chest.

He wasn't sure if that was just how it was, or if that meant he was always performing some sort of magic without being conscious of it. 

Stiles couldn't help but wonder that no one in this town stopped him. He knew he probably looked dirty, after countless nights walking through the woods without coming across any water to wash up in. His skin must be caked with dirt, even more than his clothes, but no one said anything. 

He tried not to dwell on it as he walked through the streets. The town was pretty: big and clean, and smelling faintly of salt. He was so hungry, though, that he could hardly focus on what the town looked like. He wrapped an arm around his empty stomach as he kept walking, trying to find somewhere to get food. 

A little ways ahead of him, there was a short building that had a sign engraved with a fork and a knife. He walked up the few steps while hope built in his belly. He needed to eat. Breathing in, Stiles wasn’t sure if he could smell food because he was so hungry, or if the aroma was really there. 

Stiles stumbled inside the building, doing his best to stay upright. He'd had a horrible time sleeping the night before, kept up by his hunger and feeling scared and alone and hating it all. It felt like so long ago that he’d first found his magic, and he hated how he could lie awake for hours, feeling like that same boy who knew nothing. Stiles took a deep breath, scanning the bar—that was something his town hadn't had, and the first time he’d seen one, he’d gaped.

Behind the counter was a handsome man, very tall, with nice shoulders and nicer arms. His shirt was stretched tightly over his muscled chest, and it was all very appealing to look at. Stiles dropped his eyes, embarrassed at himself, and quietly walked up the counter. There were a few other men sitting around, but it wasn't very busy, so Stiles didn't feel too exposed; especially since most of them were too caught up in what they were doing to pay him much mind.

He got to the counter with his heart beating quickly, not knowing what to say or what to do when the man looked at him. Stiles took a deep breath, trying his best to calm his nerves so that his voice would come out even when he spoke.

“Do you h-have anything to eat, sir?” Stiles asked. His cheeks heated up when the man smiled at him. It was a very nice smile, Stiles thought, and he found himself unwilling to look away.

When the man looked at him, his eyes were bright green. He cocked his head to the side, which made him look adorable and made Stiles flush darker. Then his eyes flared bright orange, as bright as the fire Stiles created. Stiles gasped, stumbling back a half step, but the man was already reaching across the counter and grabbing Stiles' shoulder to steady him.

“Hey, hey. It's okay, buddy.” The man's voice had a low, smooth timbre that Stiles enjoyed the sound of. “I'm Jordan. I'm sorry I startled ya like that.”

Stiles nodded, though he didn't say anything. Hell, he didn't know  _ what _ to say, with Jordan still looking at him. The only other person he'd met with magic had been the old lady, and his spark wasn't reacting to Jordan the way it had reacted to her.

“I-it's okay,” Stiles said quietly, settling onto one of the stools when Jordan motioned for him to. “I've...I've never met anyone like me.”

“So you're who Lyd's said was coming,” the man—Jordan—said. He laughed, a nice noise, and he disappeared around a swinging door before coming back with a ripe-looking apple. “Well, I don't know if I'd say I’m like you. I've never smelled anything like your scent before. Here, eat this to start with, and I can cook up something heavier.”

Stiles took the apple, his brain whirling. “What...what do you mean, smell?”

“Maybe...” Jordan began, looking around the room quickly. Stiles did the same and was happy to see that no one was watching them. “How about I make you something warm and filling, and when you're done we can talk somewhere no one'll be able to hear us, just to be safe.”

Stiles turned the idea over in his head, picking at the skin around his fingers as he thought. The man was clearly waiting for an answer; it was the kindness in his smile that allowed Stiles to say yes.

* * *

Jordan led him through town with an easy confidence. The man was certainly attractive, and Stiles found it hard to keep his eyes off of him as they walked side by side. Jordan caught him staring a few times, but he didn’t say anything. He was warm enough that Stiles could feel his body heat through his own jacket, and it made him wonder.

The walk wasn't too far, and the house that Jordan led him to was nice. It was on the small side, though it looked sturdy. When Stiles followed Jordan past the front door, his ears popped and the temperature dropped several degrees. Stiles wrapped his arms tighter around himself as he stepped closer to the warmth Jordan gave off, a shiver running down his spine.

“Sorry, that's Lydia. She must be working,” Jordan said, which didn't make any sense. Stiles looked around curiously, intrigued by all he saw. The only room he could see from here was a sitting room, which had a single, long couch in front of a fireplace, and a low table. The table was gorgeous, with decorative carvings over its entire surface.

“That's a very nice table,” Stiles said, taking a half step closer to see the details etched along the legs.

“Thank you,” Jordan said, his chest puffing out in a way that Stiles found very distracting. “I made it.”

“Wow,” he breathed out. He took another step into the room before he stopped dead, the entire atmosphere shifting and tensing. He looked up to see a woman entering. Red hair spilled down the length of her torso in loose waves.

“Hello,” the lady said. Before Stiles could stop himself he got lost in her eyes, watching as their emerald green twisted into a deep, endless black which swallowed her entire iris. He stared, unable to look away as they began to shift again, melting into honeyed gold, old whisky hit by the sun,  _ home _ .

Stiles stumbled back, his chest feeling tight and his eyes beginning to sting even as he wiped at them. There was a sob building in his throat that he choked back down. The only thing keeping him calm was his spark, flaring brightly as though trying to comfort him. He let it, sinking into the familiar feeling of his magic.

“W-what was that?” Stiles croaked, his voice rasping out of his closed throat.

“I'm sorry,” Lydia said, and she looked it. Her arms were folded around herself, and she leaned into the arm that Jordan was now holding her with. “I—that wasn't on purpose, Mieczysław—”

“How do you know that name?” Stiles demanded, his spark flaring with righteous anger and  _ fear _ .

“She says she loves you, and that she never wants you to forget that. She would do it all again because it meant she got to love you, even if—if she didn't get long enough,” Lydia told him. Her voice broke as a tear fell from her eye. Stiles deflated, his entire body sagging. He would have fallen to the floor if Jordan hadn't suddenly moved, faster than Stiles would have thought possible, to catch him.

He let Jordan lead him to a couch and sit him down; he sank into the cushion. His head was spinning, fear and heartache and sorrow competing for attention. He cycled through so many emotions he could barely breathe, and it felt like he was being drowned by his own thoughts. His heart hurt, and his chest felt hollow. Stiles knew he was crying; he could feel the dampness on his cheeks as he dropped his head into his hands, but he had no idea how to stop.

A shiver ran up his spine as his magic curled around him, warming him from the inside.

Desperately, he wished to be able to reach inside himself so he could touch his spark and hold it close, but he settled for wrapping his own arms around his chest in a tight hug. It wasn't enough—it had never been enough—but it was all Stiles had. He ignored the other people in the room, as he tried to wrestle down his emotions.

He looked up when Lydia cleared her throat, even though all he wanted to do was disappear.

“People are going to die,” she said, her voice holding more than Stiles could have thought possible. She sounded a million years old as she spoke, and when Stiles dared a glance upwards, her eyes were still black. “Everyone is going to die, and we are not strong enough to stop it.”

“Are you...” Stiles began, fear and trepidation climbing up his stomach and making him feel nauseous. “Are you saying that  _ I _ am?”

Lydia nodded, and suddenly her face looked far older than it had a moment ago. “It's what I have heard.”

Stiles let out a long breath, slumping into the couch in exhaustion. “I...I don’t know—”

“You are our only hope,” Lydia told him, her voice echoing around the room in a way that made Stiles shiver. He took a deep breath, then another, and then finally, he nodded. 

* * *

When Stiles left Jordan’s house, all he could feel was his own uncertainty.

Stiles had no idea what he was doing, no idea how his magic worked, and no idea how the hell he was supposed to save anyone. All Stiles  _ did _ know was what he had done so far: make fire, bring plants back to life, and burn out a darkness that had taken root inside of a horse's body. All works of magic, yes, but Stiles didn’t know  _ how  _ he’d done them.

He had no idea how he'd made any of that happen, or how to do it again.

All Stiles knew was that he had  _ believed _ that it would work, and then it had. But would he be able to repeat that? He could still feel the ever-glowing warmth inside of his chest, but that was the only thing he was sure of. Hell, he wasn't even sure he knew that Lydia was telling him the truth, but it felt  _ right, _ so he hadn't doubted her.

But saving people? Saving an entire  _ town _ ? Stiles had no idea how to go about that. He did know that his spark hadn't led him astray yet, though, and he trusted it to keep him safe. As it had done with the horse, as soon as Stiles left Jordan and Lydia's house, it started tugging at his chest, urging him on. 

He ignored it, for now. His head was still spinning with all that he had been told and all that had happened. He could hear Lydia's voice echoing every time he so much as  _ blinked _ , repeating what she had told him: the message from his mama.

His heart ached. Right now, Stiles needed to be alone. Everything was too much; he felt raw under his skin. It wasn't a feeling he liked very much. He made his way to the tree line, finding comfort in the forest. Stiles had spent so much time hidden away in the wilderness, surrounded by trees and brush, that it made him feel settled. There wasn't much light shining through the thick canopy, but Stiles' skin glowed enough that he could watch his feet.

He settled against a large tree, enjoying the way bark dug into his back. It was familiar, and Stiles needed that. His skin felt too tight, and he wanted to claw himself out of it. When he closed his eyes, he was haunted by Lydia's voice, and his next inhale shook through him, leaving him feeling hollowed out. He hadn't felt like this in a while, not since he first got his magic.

Stiles wondered if he would ever be rid of his mama. The thought hurt, pushing the first drop of wetness out of his eyes, and he curled forward to hug himself. He loved his mama, he  _ did _ , but it hurt so much. He didn't want it to hurt anymore. Shivering, Stiles distantly noticed that the winds had picked up around him. The branches above him were swaying in the strong breeze, and as Stiles continued to cry, the wind got stronger.

Suddenly, fear—cold and clammy and very shocking—climbed up his back. His spark urged him to stand, and he did so on shaky feet, his heart-rate kicking up. The wind grew fiercer around him, whipping across the bare skin of his face and pushing the cold through the layers he was wearing. The feeling made him want to run, itching to get away.

All Stiles could think about how was wrong it all felt, how  _ unnatural _ . He startled as he looked out into the woods. An unrelenting darkness seemed to be settling over the forest. Stiles' eyes widened, staring in shock as shadows shifted in ways they shouldn't have. It felt the way the darkness inside the horse had: moving on its own, creeping along the forest floor and pressing closer. 

This darkness was far worse than the evil that had been inside the horse. It was bigger, stronger, and much darker. Stiles stood on shaking knees, feeling the overwhelming  _ evil _ the moment he stepped away from the tree. The feeling only got stronger and more oppressive as he walked towards the darkness.

It was hard to breathe. Stiles focused on the warm, comforting burn inside his chest and urged it up, flexing the spark as it grew and grew until it blazed under his skin. He took another step forward, holding his head high as a strange calmness settled over him, easing the erratic beat of his heart. He knew that he had to do something, even if he had no idea what. His spark urged him forward, giving him the confidence to step closer even as the shadows pulsed around him.

His skin glowed a soft white, brighter and brighter as his chest continued to heat up, his little spark raging up into a burning fire. The darkness felt like death, and it made Stiles' stomach clench and knot. Everything that he knew, and everything that he was, told him it was  _ wrong _ , and Stiles had no idea what to do. It was more and more difficult to draw breath, and in the next moment the temperature dropped so harshly that Stiles was sure that if it wasn't for his spark heating him from inside, he would have frozen.

Ice began to build up along the grass as the shadows surged together and contracted, slinking into itself as it formed into a figure. Stiles' heart sped up, beating so fast and so loud that it was all he could hear. He didn't dare take a step back as the figure darkened and took form, a shapeless mass forming limbs.

The shadows got more and more defined as they came together. Stiles could feel the way the thing was gaining strength, becoming more and more powerful as it built itself into something that looked human. Its features smoothed out, shadows shaping and reforming, becoming something that slowly resembled someone that Stiles could recognize. A chill ran up his spine as the shadows got sharper.

The darkness moved forward, as if taking a step. When its 'foot' touched down onto the grass it snapped together, stray shadows falling away as the figure took a form that Stiles recognized instantly. “You're not my mama,” Stiles said to himself quietly, repeating the words over and over. He knew that what he was seeing  _ couldn't _ be true, but his chest ached anyway.

The creature that wore his mama’s face laughed, and the noise twisted through the air alongside its shadows. Stiles could feel nothing but the fear that was gripping his chest; his lungs burned as he tried to breathe in. Panic was making him feel dizzy, and the shadowed woman just stood there there, watching with a gleeful smile twisting her lips.

All Stiles wanted to do was turn away. Staring at this haunted version of his mama made everything hurt, but he squared his shoulders and held his head up. He tried to focus on his spark as best as he could, and on the warm heat it filled him with. It was glowing softly, a quiet hum under his skin, nothing like the forest fire it had been only moments ago. He wanted that back, wanted to feel the heat under his skin as the shadows made frost creep up around him.

Stiles breathed as deeply as he could, letting cool air fill his lungs as his chest expanded. He had no idea what he was doing, and he was terrified, but he let the familiar warmth of his spark work to calm him. Stiles pushed at it, just like he had done before, and he felt it rise inside of his chest. Squaring his shoulders, Stiles planted his feet on the ground, mumbling a little prayer of hope under his breath as he focused on his magic.

“Ah, ah, little spark,” the shadow said, his mama's voice distorted into something ugly and wrong. It made him angry, suddenly, and it helped to spur his magic on, magic that had been passed down to him by his mama.

“You are not my mama,” he said again, surer, and the words echoed around the clearing with power he had no idea he had.

He focused on his mama, on the warmth of her smile and the comfort her hugs had always brought him, and he let those thoughts burn along with his spark. His magic rose up and up, lighting him from the inside out and making him glow. He was burning, his magic  _ too _ bright, but he couldn't stop it. All he knew was the evil in front of him, the shadow that would end the entire town. 

Stiles couldn't let that happen.

He pushed out, letting his magic flow from him into the surrounding clearing, slinking over the frost-covered grass and leaving it fresh and green. His magic soothed the hurt forest, slowly, pushing against the shadows that seemed never-ending. The shadow laughed again, ugly and inhuman, and Stiles shivered. There was resistance against the soft glow of his magic, and Stiles pushed harder.

The exertion was a strange feeling. He wasn't moving, but his breathing was laboured as though he had been running. His hands were shaking where they were held by his side, though Stiles wasn’t sure why. All he knew was that he was tired, as he pushed more of his magic at the tendrils of shadow that were trying to overpower him. His head ached as he focused on his spark, urging it to burn hotter and brighter to force the darkness away.

Stiles took a deep breath, puffing out his chest as he squared his shoulders. He raised his hands, his magic rising with them. His spark surged, white light swirling through the clearing as air whipped around his body wildly. The shadows were still fighting against him, but Stiles pushed with everything that he had. He watched as the face of his mother contorted, twisting into something ugly and inhuman as it screeched, its jaw opening and opening and opening as it yelled.

With another deep breath, Stiles shoved all of his desperation out of himself, praying and hoping and believing that it would work, that his magic would be strong enough to get rid of this evil, vile thing. He shouted, pain coursing through his body as more and more of his spark bled out of his chest and into the surrounding forest. He didn't dare stop, even though it felt like he was being ripped apart.

Shadows still crept along the edge of Stiles' vision, and he pushed harder, stronger, his entire body alight with pain, and still he pushed. He pushed and pushed, using every last bit of himself and his spark until there was nothing left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't wanna bother with posting tomorrow morning so here ya go


	10. Chapter 10

****

Stiles woke up shivering, curled up in a pile of leaves and broken branches. His teeth clacked together with every breath he took, and his body was wracked with shivers, so hard that it hurt. The forest was silent; Stiles could hear nothing, not even the low chattering of animals or the sound of wind passing through foliage. It was eerie, and it reminded Stiles of the deserted town he had once passed through. It felt like a lifetime ago now, but Stiles remembered the unease that had made a home inside his stomach, and he knew that the town had perished due to the shadows he’d fought here.

With a start, he struggled to open his eyes. The sun's light was beaming down on him, blinding when he squinted an eye open. He groaned, turning his head into the grass below him. His body was sore, sorer than it had ever been before, and his head ached. For a long, silent moment, he wished he could die. He had never felt like this before. The pain was unbearable. He groaned weakly, trying in vain to get into a position that hurt less. His chest burned when he inhaled, a feeling that Stiles hated, and it brought attention to the sudden hollowness in it.

With a jolt that left him crying out in pain, Stiles looked within himself, desperate to find his spark. His eyes began to sting, tears clouding his vision, as he looked deeper and deeper. There was nothing, there was  _ nothing _ , and Stiles wanted to scream with rage. Nothing but a dry, cracking sob left his throat, and he curled up into a tight ball that pulled at too-sore muscles as he began to cry until there was nothing left.

* * *

Stiles came to slowly. His head still throbbed, and it felt as though a heavy blanket was settled over him. Thinking was hard; Stiles struggled to remember when he had gone to bed. He went to roll over when pain shot through his body, making him cry out hoarsely. Everything rushed back to him at once, the pain and the sorrow and the overwhelming  _ loss _ he had felt before unconsciousness had dragged him under. Stiles tried to take a deep breath, but it burned his throat.

He was cold, colder than he had been in a long time, but he wouldn't,  _ couldn't _ , check for his spark. He didn't want to know, didn't want confirmation of its absence. Stiles' eyes began to water again, and he curled onto his side despite the protest in his muscles. The ground was cool under him, branches and grass softer than he would have expected. There was a sense of magic in the air, a little bit  _ more _ that Stiles could feel every time he breathed in, but...it was different.

The forest’s magic seemed diluted, nothing like it usually felt like as it twined together with his spark and lit up under his skin. A sob slipped past his lips, and Stiles felt overwhelmingly vulnerable as his heart broke, nothing but lonely, cold emptiness inside his chest. Exhaustion weighed on him heavily, holding tightly and making it harder and harder to think. Slowly, too slowly, it pulled him under until there was no more pain.

* * *

The next time Stiles woke up, he wasn't in the forest. The bed under him was soft, and the blankets that covered him were warm. He felt disoriented, but it was hard to focus on that with how painfully his head was throbbing. He distantly remembered waking up before, but the memory was too fogged by pain to know when or for how long he had been conscious.

The room he was in was nice, done up in warm tones that made Stiles feel at ease. He focused on that instead of the ache that ran throughout his entire body, duller than before but still too sharp. He took a deep breath, pleased that it didn't feel as though he was trying to tear his chest apart. A shiver ran up his spine, and he closed his eyes as tears began to burn in his lashes. Just the memory of what had happened had him shaking, his entire body wracked with a fine shiver.

He didn't even know how he was alive.

A sob slipped past his lips. Stiles curled up onto his side even though it hurt, hiding his face in the pillow under his head. He wished for sleep, for the ignorance of unconsciousness, as everything continued to throb. He tried, but he couldn’t fall back asleep, not with how sore he was and how badly his heart was aching. It was all so much more than Stiles knew how to handle. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't  _ care _ .

He didn't want to be alive.

It wasn't worth it.

Stiles drifted. The ache in his bones kept him from falling asleep, and he was rested enough that exhaustion wasn't weighing heavily over him. He didn't want to get up. The pain made everything too real; it made it impossible to believe the lies he tried telling himself. There was no way that everything had been a dream, no matter how badly he wished that to be true. He wished for sleep, for anything other than the crushing despair. It was all he could feel, even over the pain that still clung to his very being.

He didn’t notice that he was crying until the soft fabric under his face dampened. Stiles didn't even try to stop, knowing it would do no good and feeling too tired to make the attempt. Instinctually, he reached for his spark, searching for his magic in hopes of finding comfort its warmth always brought him. He was hit by a wave of grief, flashing back to being in the forest and feeling nothing but an empty coldness.

Stiles wrapped both of his arms around himself and curled up tighter, squeezing his eyes shut as his breath hiccuped. He tried to stop, knowing that he was only hurting himself, but he couldn’t. He focused within, searching for the warmth of his magic. There was nothing— _ nothing _ . Stiles was gagging from crying so hard, but still he couldn’t stop. He needed it to still be there, needed to find  _ something _ .

Finally, finally he felt the weak, barely-there warmth that could only be his magic. A sob fell past his lips, and relief rushed through him so strongly that he could feel nothing else as everything, once again, went dark.

* * *

When Stiles woke up  _ again _ , he forced himself into a sitting position despite how much it hurt. He didn't want to pass out again, not when he had no idea where he was. His stomach was gnawing at him, making him feel sick. It was rumbling loudly, and only his need to eat that got him out of the bed he was lying in.

Stiles' sack was in the far corner, sitting neatly atop his folded clothes. They all looked clean, except for the clothes that Stiles was still wearing. A flash of fear rushed through him when he realized that someone had gone through his stuff. Hurrying forward, Stiles dug through his pack, slumping with relief when he found everything else still inside.

He had no idea where he was, and it was beginning to make him anxious. Stiles could hear voices coming from the other room; he gave himself a few moments to breathe before he walked through the doorway slowly, relaxing a little when he recognized the main room. He must have made a noise, because a figure rounded the corner.

“Stiles?” Lydia asked as she hurried closer. She stopped when Stiles stumbled back a step. “I—are you okay?”

Stiles nodded his head, even though it wasn’t the truth. He didn’t know what else to say.  _ Nothing _ was okay. They stared at each other, though Stiles refused to make eye contact. He kept his gaze focused on the sharp cut of Lydia's cheekbone, pushing down the sorrow that seeing her caused, remembering exactly how her voice had shaped words that should have been said by Stiles' mama. 

There was an awkward moment of silence before Jordan came out from another room, a mug of something steaming in his hands. They stood in a standstill, the three of them staring at one another. Stiles wasn't sure what to say, and even less sure of what to do. He had no idea how he had gotten here. He looked up when Jordan cleared his throat.

“Here.” Jordan pressed the mug into Stiles’ hand.

When he reached for it, he noticed that his fingers were shaking. He took the mug carefully, gripping it tightly in both hands. He took a deep breath, and then another, raising the cup to his mouth and taking a small sip when his hands had steadied enough to do so. The tea was sweet on his tongue; warmth slid down his throat and settled in his stomach.

“Would you like to sit down?” Jordan asked, and Stiles nodded. He was still tired. Exhaustion pulling at his bones and made him feel heavy.

Jordan motioned him toward the couch. Stiles let himself sink into the cushion as though standing was too hard a feat. He focused on the warmth of the mug in his hand and let it spread through him. His breath shook in and out, rattling through his chest. Stiles closed his eyes when they began to sting, focusing on his breathing and the sweet smell of the tea.

Everyone stayed silent as he calmed down. No one spoke, though Stiles could feel the tension in the room. He listened as they moved around, only opening his eyes when the couch dipped beside him. Jordan gave him a warm smile, the smile Stiles had liked so much. It still made him flush, despite everything that had happened, and for some reason that made Jordan smile wider.

“Do you remember how you got here?” Jordan's voice had a soft, soothing timbre that seemed to rumble out of him. Stiles didn't look away, keeping his eyes focused on Jordan's face and his green eyes.

He shook his head and bit into his bottom lip, trying to push down the fear that was rising up in his stomach. The gap in his memory, now that he was thinking about it, made him uneasy. Trying to remember what had happened after he first passed out only made his head hurt worse. He dropped his chin to his chest to hide the sudden rush of tears, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes that they wouldn't spill over.

Jordan let him be, thankfully. His nerves felt raw, and he felt exposed in a way that made him uncomfortable. He focused on his spark for the first time that morning, trying to find the little bead of warmth inside his chest that he knew would make him feel better. It was hardly more than a speck of light, but it was there, and knowing that let him breathe easier.

It was a while longer before Stiles felt like he could take a full breath, but eventually, some of the panic faded away. He was exhausted, a type of tired that he had never been before, a type of tired that sunk into his bones and made a home under his skin. Stiles just wanted to go back to bed, but...he couldn't stop thinking about the gaps in his memory and how uneasy they made him feel.

He yawned, loudly, and then took another moment to just breathe before he worked up the courage to ask, “How...how did I get here?”

“Jordan found you,” Lydia explained. Stiles looked up to find her watching him from the entryway. She was beautiful, in a way that felt cold next to Jordan’s warm attractiveness. They were so different. “We don’t know what happened. I woke up and the feeling of death was gone. That was when Jordan went looking for you; he was able to track your scent into the woods.”

“You were sleeping,” Jordan said, picking up the story. “You stunk like pain, and I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t wake up, so I brought you back here.”

“You...you tracked my scent?” Stiles asked. He knew that his voice sounded unusually high.

Something close to excitement started pumping through his body, and Stiles revelled in the way it made him feel. He listened with rapt attention as Jordan began to tell him about what he was: a hellhound. Stiles let his curiosity take over, enjoying that way he was able to focus on something other than the dread in his stomach or the pain in his chest. It was one thing for magic to exist; it was another thing entirely for mythical beings to be real, too.

Jordan and Lydia went back and forth, telling Stiles about various other creatures that they knew of. It was interesting to see Lydia so involved in the conversation, and Stiles found that he let his guard down as time went on. Eventually, though, he became too tired to keep listening.

Jordan helped him back to the room he had woken up in. Stiles' eyes were so heavy with sleep that he could barely keep them open, and he leaned into Jordan's warmth as the man half-carried him to bed. He dropped to sleep on top of the covers.

* * *

Stiles stayed with Lydia and Jordan for a long while. At first, it was because he was weak. His spark was nothing but a small, dim flicker of light, sitting so deep in his chest that Stiles could barely feel it. Physically, he was even weaker. He couldn't stand for very long, and he could only walk from the bed they let him stay in to the couch before getting tired. Any farther, and Jordan had to help him. The pain lingered, lessening but never leaving. Stiles wasn't sure if the ache in his bones would ever go away.

The weakness of his spark was the hardest part to deal with. He felt for it constantly. Stiles had been so, so sure that he had lost it, so sure that he had  _ mourned _ his magic. Nothing had ever hurt as bad as knowing that he had lost the very last bit of his mama. He had felt so cold without his magic warming him, and he never wanted to feel like that again. The emptiness plagued his dreams just as often as the haunted face the shadows had taken on.

Stiles was sure the sleep he was missing was only delaying his healing. He hardly slept for any length of time, waking up many times throughout the night. He napped every day, sometimes more than once, but he was still tired. Lydia and Jordan were excellent to him. They opened their home to him with wide arms. Stiles took a while to warm up to Lydia, but as time went on and she continued to care for him, he began to care for her too. 

The two of them knew so much, and Lydia's work was endlessly fascinating. Her magic was so different from his own, tinged with the dark coolness of death. The taste of her magic became comforting, as Stiles' spark very, very slowly regained strength. She was still cold next to Jordan's warmth, but underneath the comforting blaze of fire that Jordan's soul wore, there was the stench of death as well. The first time Stiles felt it, he understood why they were together.

It was slow going, but eventually Stiles built his strength back up. Sometimes, Jordan would take him for walks throughout the neighbourhood, and strangers would shower him with praise he didn’t feel as though he deserved. He preferred staying inside, watching Lydia work or spending time with Jordan. Sometimes he would go to work with Jordan and sit at the bar, watching people as they came and went.

Even slower was his magic. There were days when Stiles thought that his spark would never be what it once was and that he would always feel cold. The hollowness in his chest hadn't gone away, and Stiles would wake clutching at his heart, shivering so violently that everything hurt. There were days, his darkest days, when he wondered why he was still going. When he wondered what he had to live for.

Lydia was good at helping him out of those moods. Stiles had grown to care for them so much, that by the time he was physically healed and his spark was once again a constant warmth inside him, he still stayed. When he thought of leaving, his chest got so tight that it felt as though he couldn't breathe. So he put it off. Neither of them said anything, and in turn Stiles helped where he could, doing housework that he had done when his mama had been sick and helping Jordan with whatever he needed.

It took Stiles a while to realize that he was  _ happy _ ; that he built a life for himself that he was content in. It was a terrifying notion, thinking of Lydia and Jordan's house as his home, but...late at night, when Stiles was kept up by nightmares, he allowed himself to think of this place that way.

Until he found the compass.

He had been cleaning, tidying up while Lydia and Jordan spent a night out together. He picked up his sack, which he hadn’t touched since he first emptied his clothing into a chest Jordan had built for him, and was surprised at its weight. Looking inside, he let out a surprised gasp when he saw the compass the old lady had long ago gifted to him. He reached in slowly, his fingers cautiously brushing against the cool metal.

It had been a long while since he'd last held it, long enough that he had forgotten how its magic felt in his hand. He gave himself a moment to stare at the smooth lid before he took a deep breath and opened it. An uneasy weight settled in his stomach, making him feel a little sick. He stumbled back so he could fall onto his bed. The compass had led him to this town, but it felt like that had been an entire lifetime ago.

He was so different, so changed by time and experience. Fear climbed up his belly when he thought of what the compass had led him to do, and Stiles felt the sudden weight of every nightmare he had had since he fought the shadows. He didn't want to leave. Stiles had left his home once, and he didn't want to do it again. But compass’ magic swelled, washing over him, and Stiles knew.

He would have to go.

* * *

Stiles packed. He knew that drawing it out would only hurt more, and that wasn't fair to any of them. He had more clothes than he'd had when he arrived, all softer and better made, gifted to him by the townspeople. Stiles' eyes stung with tears as he loaded his sack with as many clothes as he could; they spilled over when he fastened the pack closed. He sunk to his knees, despair a hot band in his chest that he couldn't get away from.

As much as he didn't want to leave, Stiles knew that he had to. His mama had gifted Stiles her magic in exchange for her life, and if there was anything Stiles knew with his entire being, it was that he  _ had _ to make his mama proud. He refused to let her sacrifice be for nothing. He sat on his bed, warm tears falling down his face, and thought of all the lives he had saved. Lives of people he had come to love.

Lydia's laughter rang through the house when she and Jordan returned, and Stiles met them in the main room. Lydia took him in with a sad smile which held nothing but her acceptance, and he fell into her arms. When Jordan wrapped his arms around the both of them, Stiles began to cry. It was all so unfair,  _ everything _ was unfair, but Stiles could do nothing about that. He could feel the compass’ heat where it sat in his pocket, its magic whirling.

“Thank you,” Stiles managed to choke out. His heart felt like it was being torn out of his chest.

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Jordan told him, his face pressed into Stiles' hair. As they held him, he realized they had always known he was going to leave. It didn't make it any easier.

It was a long time before any of them pulled away. Stiles almost considered staying until morning, but he knew if he didn't leave that night, he never would. He and his spark knew that he had to keep others safe with the magic that had been gifted to him. As Stiles pulled away, his did his best to get his emotions under control. He sniffed loudly, rubbing at his eyes as he forced himself to calm down.

“One moment,” Jordan said, before he turned and walked into their bedroom. Lydia gave him a moment of quiet which he used to breathe deeply, so he was done crying by the time Jordan came back. 

“The townspeople would like to thank you,” Jordan told him, and held up a large bag that clinked with coins. Stiles' eyes widened at the size of it. His heart rate picked up even as he shook his head. “Stiles, please. You saved all of our lives, and we know it cost you do to so.”

“Please let us give you something to show our thanks,” Lydia said, taking Stiles’ hand in her own. Her voice was shaking as she added, “We don't want to worry about you more than we have to. This would give us some piece of mind.”

Stiles knew that was entirely for his benefit, but he let himself believe her either way. He let out a wet laugh, taking the bag of coins and tucking it into his pack. “I'm going to miss you so much,” Stiles told them, and began crying again. “I thank you, then.”  
  
“Be safe,” Jordan said. Stiles didn't look back, not a single time, as he walked out of town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of chapter last week, i updated another wip. weekly updates will continue, excluding the last Thursday of each month, as i'll be updating that other wip those weeks!


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles had followed the compass for a long time; long enough that he was wearing clothes made for men. It was strange, knowing that he had grown so much, that he was nothing like the little boy who had run away, scared of his father's anger and the sharp sting of his palm. Knowing that he was different, still, from the boy who had nearly lost his spark to a monster made of shadows and dark magic.

Stiles was nothing like he had once been.

He was a forest fire of magic that blazed within his eyes. He was power—dangerous and uncontrolled and  _ strong _ . He knew more about the world than he ever could have imagined or wanted, and he embraced all that he was and all that he could do.

The compass from the witch—it hadn't taken him long to know what other magics felt like, not once he started to travel with a purpose—had served him well since he was given it. He had followed it faithfully, doing whatever he could for those it brought him to. But he didn't think it would be serving him anymore. Stiles' lips twisted down into a frown as he stared at it. He tapped the side, once, twice, and a third time for good measure. Nothing.

The arrow that had once pointed him towards those in need, was nowhere to be seen. It had vanished between one night and the next; Stiles could only assume that the magic that had been keeping it running had run out. He paid a moment of silence for the life of the witch, before a thought struck.

He considered the compass, wondering if he could try to replicate the magic he had become so familiar with. Stiles could still feel it, just under his skin, and he was sure that if he tried, he would be able to copy the spell closely enough for it to continue to work. But...he wasn't sure he wanted to.

Stiles had travelled for so long. He had grown so much, not just in age and in size, but with his magic. He got to see many of the creatures Lydia and Jordan had once told him about, and he got to experience than he ever could have imagined. Now, he was tired. He was tired in a way that stuck in his bones no matter how much rest he got. He wondered, for a moment, if he was ever going to stop.

Stiles wasn't sure when enough would be enough. Maybe...maybe this could be enough? Maybe this was the sign that he had been waiting for, the sign that he had done all he could, and that he had made use of the gift his mama had given to him. With the compass broken, maybe he could finally let himself settle. He hadn't found anywhere to call home since he left Jordan and Lydia a lifetime ago, and the thought of having one was...it was nice.

With a nod, Stiles decided to let his magic lead him, not the magic of someone else. It was nice. Stiles felt as though he could take his time, and for a few days, he allowed himself to rest peacefully. He longer felt the urgency to rush to wherever the compass was taking him, now that he was guiding himself. He used his spark to pull a wagon along with him, sleeping in its bed when the sun went down, and rising with it the next morning.

His magic led him to the shore. Stiles had been to a few sea towns during his travels, and they were always his favorite. He wasn't surprised that his magic had led him to the water. He breathed in deeply as the tree line he had been walking through broke onto soft, warm sand.

Ahead of him, water stretched out. Fresh, salty air hit his nose. The water ahead was choppy, splashing almost violently against the sharp rocks that made up the shore. Stiles stayed on the sand, the high sun beating down on his weathered skin as he watched the ocean.

His smile came so easily.

Stiles kept walking. This area felt right to him, somehow. His magic could sense no ill intent or hidden evil. There was  _ something _ , but it wasn't bad, just a flavour of magic that Stiles had never tasted before. It was so much better than the evils Stiles had experienced during his travels. He had encountered magic much darker than the shadowed woman.

More often than not, Stiles felt as though he were being suffocated, like darkness or some unnamed evil was trying to stamp out his spark. Too many times, creatures and beasts had nearly done so. But here there was nothing like that; nothing but the scent of the sea in the air and the warmth of the high sun. He kept walking, letting his spark lead him along the beach.

Farther ahead, atop a small hill of yellowed grass, sat a small cabin that looked worn but well-loved. His heart swelled with a hope he hadn't felt since he was a boy, which continued to grow the closer he got. The cabin reminded him of home, with the slope of its roof and the placement of its doors. Something called Stiles to it, and he made quick work of the short pathway that led to its front door. He knocked, even though he was sure that it was empty and that no one had been inside for many years.

Stiles kept his footsteps light as he stepped through the front door cautiously. He shivered as he entered, but he didn't feel anything magical about the building, nothing but a comforting sense of rightness. The inside was nice. Worn by time, but spacious enough. Stiles closed his eyes and called upon his spark, letting it rush out of him and fill the space. It felt just as excited as he was, and it clung to the wall and the floors.

Stiles felt his spark rejoice, singing with joy, and a laugh bubbled out of his mouth. It shocked him, and he realized that he couldn't remember the last time he’d laughed or the last time he had felt this happy. He smiled, as easy as breathing, and let himself consider what it would be like to be home, for the first time.

* * *

Stiles settled into his new home easily. He was in no rush after wandering for so many years. His magic seeped into the walls and the floors, soaking into the worn wood and bringing it back to life. It was amazing, watching as the house seemed to straighten, standing taller and prouder, brought to life by Stiles' magic.

His spark breathed life into the space. Stiles got to watch as his magic expanded into the surrounding area the longer he stayed, making the grass greener and the flowers bigger. It felt like his, and he knew that his spark was weaving protection around his home. He could feel the wards that were layering up, building a bubble of protection that would forever keep Stiles safe.

Stiles made quick work of furnishing the entire place, using his magic to carve great oaks into tables and turn simple grass and hay into the most comfortable of cushions. He fashioned a broom out of hay and sticks and his spark, and he kept the place as clean as his mother had once kept their home. In fact, aside from his spark, cleaning made him feel closer to his mama than anything else. He enjoyed the time he put into it, if only for that reason.

It wasn't long before what once was an empty shell became a home, a place that looked as loved as it was. Stiles would forever be thankful that his spark had led him here. More and more, it felt like it had been made for him, like he belonged there. The sea called to him and the weather pleased him. Everything felt  _ right _ , and he could feel his spark settle inside of his chest as he got more and more comfortable.

There was a town nearby that Stiles found he enjoyed visiting. He didn't go often. He enjoyed being able to be alone; after so many years of traveling on his own, he found being around others tiring. If he stayed for too long, he would return from town exhausted. He went mainly when he needed supplies. He found that after spending so many years living within forests, it was nice to cook.

Along the edges of his memories were the meals that Mama used to cook for him, and more vividly the meals he’d prepared alongside Lydia. He loved being able to eat food that he had made, warm from the stove and more filling than any of the food he had been able to eat on the go. He boiled and fried and mixed, and he happily took recipes from ladies who wished to bestow their knowledge on him, creating more intricate dishes as days bled into weeks and many moons passed.

Sometimes, late at night when the world was sleeping and Mother Moon was high in the sky, he thought about how much his life had changed. Sometimes, Stiles got overwhelmed by all the ways he had grown. He asked a street artist to sketch him once, and the man had given him a gorgeous sketch done in charcoals. The artist had drawn a  _ man _ , one who looked like his mother, and Stiles had had to bite down on a wave of despair when he saw the likeness.

Stiles had realized then that he still thought himself as the little boy who had run away a lifetime ago. It took a while to shift his thinking, but he  _ was _ a man, one he hoped his parents would have been proud of. Sometimes, rarely, he thought about that, too—everything that he had left behind and everything that he would never again have.

Those thoughts were fleeting. Stiles, for the first time, was happy. He was happy in a way that he had never been before: not when he was little, or as he’d wandered alone, no matter how many people he helped. Nothing had made him feel like this. His chest was filled with a warmth that felt like it would never cool.

* * *

Stiles had just laid down to rest when he heard it. The setting sun was streaming in through the windows, a soft, pale glow that covered him comfortably. He had given himself an early night, tired by both physical labor and the magic he had been wielding that day. His ears perked up, and he strained his hearing, holding his breath as not to make any noise—and there it was.

Sitting up, Stiles let his fleece slide down his body and pool around his hips. The noise was gorgeous; he had never heard anyone sing so sweetly before. It urged him up and out of bed, tugging at Stiles’ chest until he was almost helpless but to follow it. When he stepped out of his door, the song wrapped around him in an embrace that he never wanted to leave.

He let out a long, pleased sigh. The sun was still setting, and it washed everything in gold. Stiles let the song pull him to the beach. The sand was warm against his bare toes. Raising his arms high above his head, he stretched, arching his spine and popping his back. He sat, and the setting sun warmed his skin as the song brought him comfort.

Lying down, Stiles let his eyes fall closed as the music washed over him. He didn't think to question it; not when it made something in his chest loosen for the first time, something that he hadn't even known had been there. It eased the heaviness that usually sat around his heart and made Stiles feel lighter than he could ever remember.

Stiles stared at the soft glow of the sky, watching as day settled into night, never wanting to leave. The stars were full, and he loved that he could lay out on the beach and stare up at the endless expanse of the sky. The moon was glowing brightly above, its pale light shining down on him. He felt at peace, the soft cadence of the voice washing over him while Mother Moon beamed.

His lips stretched up into a smile, the easiest and truest smile he had ever worn, and he let years of heartache and loneliness seep out of him. He let his magic rise out of him, his spark dancing through the night with a mind that was purely its own. Soft white light danced around him, spiralling with the beat of the music.

He listened, and listened, and listened, the warmth of the song and the smoothness of the voice singing making Stiles feel weightless, stuck in time as the moon shone down on him.

* * *

When Stiles had first settled into his new home and found the town that was only a short ways away, the townsfolk had warned him about a creature who lived in the sea and lured men and women alike to their death. “Don't listen to the siren’s song,” they had told him. “You'll never come back from the shore, if the siren leads you there.”

Stiles had long ago learned to never scoff at a tale, as there was almost always truth in the stories that got passed down by the generations. He had met many creatures in his time, and while he had never heard of a 'siren' before, he was not discounting the town’s truth. The day after he had listened to the beautiful song, he went into town and stuck along the edges, listening to whispered conversations about the lady who had disappeared from her home that morning.

It made him wonder. Stiles had felt  _ something _ , but he wasn’t sure if the pull he felt towards the music was mundane or magical. He spent his day in town, listening to the rumours people told. This wasn’t the first disappearance that the town had faced, and he heard the ire with which the town spoke of the creature.

The music Stiles had heard, which he was beginning to think  have been the siren's song, had been the most beautiful thing that Stiles had ever heard. The townsfolk spoke of the creature with such hatred, but the music Stiles had heard was so beautiful that he was hesitant to believe them.

When he heard the singing again, three nights later, the warnings from the town folk came to mind. If Stiles focused, the pull was easy to feel. He was familiar with magic, but the magic that wrapped around him now, feeling of nothing but warmth and comfort, was new.

Despite the warnings of death, he followed the pull. Stiles' curiosity had never lessened, and he yearned just as much for knowledge as he had when he was a boy. It had gotten him into a lot of trouble during his travels, but he wasn't going to stop searching. And the song was still beautiful enough that he doubted its destructive power.

He let the music wrap him up and lead him from his home and past the barrier that his magic had formed. The pull was much stronger outside, but Stiles felt his spark burn bright as foreign magic tried to seep under his skin. It was a different feeling from the night before, and once the magic struck it only got stronger. The music got louder and the tempo sped up, and Stiles felt compelled to keep going. 

It wasn't the same song as the other night. This one was...darker, in a way. It left Stiles feeling haunted, like the melody was penetrating his skin and telling the singer everything there was to know about him. Even though he could feel his magic working to keep him protected, he couldn't get past the way this foreign magic felt. As it continued, Stiles felt the pull grow stronger.

He walked until sand became dirt and dirt became grass. The forest, when he got to it, was dark. Stiles could feel the moon shining over him, high and bright in the sky, and he entered the forest without a thought. The land’s magic bent to his own, swirling with his spark as it rejoiced in his presence. 

It hadn't taken long for Stiles to realize his magic lay within nature. Once he started following the compass and using his magic more and more, he realized why he had been so comfortable sleeping in the woods. His magic was one with nature, gifted to him by Mother Moon herself, and Stiles felt closest to his spark when he was in the woods. 

Once he had realized that, it was easy to feel the magic that came from nature. Now, he smiled as he let his magic trail along the forest’s floor, bringing up flowers as he walked. Grass cushioned each step he took, as he walked barefoot through the woods. The pull of the music got stronger the closer he got, growing louder.

The song made emotion rise in Stiles' chest even as he did his best to ignore it. Instead, he wove in and out of trees as he neared the source of the music and its magic. The tune reverberated through him, sinking under his skin and into his bones. He walked on, going deeper into the woods than he had yet to travel on his own. 

The tree line dropped off in front of him, and when Stiles got to the edge it felt like he was looking out over the entire world. Spread out before him, for as far as he could see, was the black murkiness of the sea, the moon’s light glinting across its surface. It was gorgeous, and the view stole Stiles' breath away. He had never seen anything like it before. His chest swelled impossibly large with everything he was feeling.

Slowly, the music filtered back in, pushing to the forefront of his senses as his awe faded. It was stronger here, nothing but the great openness and the soft melody playing across the ocean's surface. He stepped closer to the forest's edge and was pulled back by the forest’s own magic, trees and foliage bending towards him. Stiles let out a breathless laugh, never having felt  _ anything _ like that before. He pushed out a pulse of his own magic to calm the forest.

When he stepped forward again, he did so slowly. He kept his palm against a nearby tree, the bark rough against the pads of his fingers. The forest’s magic was still humming around him, though Stiles was able to keep it calm enough that he could step up to the ledge, his toes curling into the hard piece of rock which abruptly cut off. Stiles’ eyes skimmed the jagged edge of the cliff all the way down to the sandy beach, staring at the waves as they lapped against the shore.

A little way into the water, Stiles could make out the silhouette of a figure, covered in shadows. As soon as Stiles noticed the figure, the song got louder, its hold on him becoming so tight that for a moment Stiles couldn't breathe. Only the biting heat of his own spark kept him from taking another step forward. Stiles let out a breath that shuddered out of him. 

A cloud shifted, and a beam of moonlight shot down, illuminating the rock and the creature that sat upon it. Stiles’ breath stuck—the creature was  _ gorgeous _ . The moon cast shadows which played across skin wrapped over muscle, highlighting the hard lines of the creature’s body. He was wearing nothing but those shadows, and the pull increased as Stiles stared. The creature wasn't facing him, so all Stiles saw was the thick span of shoulders and the sharp cut of his jaw.

He was too far away to make out any details, but everything in Stiles was urging him forward. All he wanted was to see the creature closer. He couldn't help but wonder what it would like if he were close enough to make out details. Stiles' mind was whirling with thoughts faster than he could process them; he pressed his hand firmly against the tree, letting the bark dig into his skin and ground him.

From this close, the music seemed all-consuming. The song was everywhere and nowhere, echoing endlessly off the sea. Stiles could just barely make out the figure's jaw working as he sang, and he could see the magic he spun with his voice.

From here, Stiles could feel the magic better: the bitter twinge of something darker, right below the surface, made Stiles' skin want to crawl. It wasn't the same warmth Stiles had felt the first night, nor the soft pull that had first urged him to follow. This was twisted in a way that made Stiles' heart beat faster. He couldn't look away, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.

Fear and excitement gripped his stomach and made his breath short, and for a moment he knew nothing but the intoxicating taste of the siren’s song.

* * *

Stiles didn't leave until morning. The creature dived back into the water as the sun rose, disappearing into the murky depths as though he had never been there. His magic cut off the second his song ended, and Stiles' entire body relaxed at once. It wasn't until he was nearly slumped over with relief that he realized he had been holding himself taut for  _ hours _ , his body nothing but tense lines.

He fell against the tree he had been leaning against, sucking in a deep breath of air which expanded his lungs. His exhale shuddered out of him, sudden exhaustion pulling at his bones. It hardly felt like any time had passed since he first laid eyes on the siren, but the soft light of dawn was already brightening the forest and shining on the water. With a deep breath, Stiles turned away, taking strength from the forest.

It was an easy trip back to his home. As soon as he stepped onto his property, his magic wrapped around him, welcoming him home and bundling him in warmth. Stiles smiled even as exhaustion crept up his spine and forced a yawn past his lips. He stumbled through his home, falling into the pile of quilts he slept in, too used to rough forest floors to sleep on anything softer.

As he fell asleep, he dreamt of the creature and the smooth, aching melody it had sung.


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles slept until the following morning. He expected nothing less, as he had spent the entire evening in the forest, listening to the siren's song. When he woke there was no music, and for a moment he felt bereft without the singing. He watched the sun continue its rise through his window as he let the silence linger. Stiles flexed his spark, feeling the way it was connected with his house, feeling safe and comfortable around him.

He did his best to go about his day, but his curiosity never waned. All Stiles thought about was the siren and his song. He was endlessly fascinated by the magic that he’d felt wrap around him. No matter what he was doing or what he tried to distract himself with, his thoughts would wander to the aching melody from the night before. It consumed his every thought.

With a frustrated huff, he tossed his broom to the floor and gave in. There was no way he would be able to stop wondering until he did something to appease his curiosity, and he knew the only way to do that was to see the siren again. Decision made, Stiles dressed in loose linen clothes that hung comfortably on his frame. The afternoon sun was warm, and its heat bore down on him the moment he stepped out of his front door.

Stiles let his magic lead him. The sand was warm under his bare feet, and the first step from grass to sand sent a comfortable warmth up his spine. He kept walking, following the pull of his own magic as it expanded around him. It seeped out of him, skipping across the beach that stretched out ahead of him, miles and miles of pale gold sand. Beyond it was the water, stretching on as far as Stiles could see.

He walked parallel with the forest. To one side was the woods; the sand was a slow slope, and as Stiles walked, the forest got higher and higher above him. Packed dirt became a wall of jagged rock; he kept going, following the edge. He had never before ventured this far out onto the beach.

The sun was pleasantly warm against his skin. It wasn't long before he neared the water’s edge, and the cool water lapped at his feet. Stiles walked through the waves, the water rising around his ankles. It cooled off his entire body and felt amazing in contrast with the sun's warmth. When he looked up, a sense of calm settled over him and his spark quieted inside his chest.

The surrounding sand was littered with jagged rocks; the calm waves washed over them gently. The sight was familiar, and when Stiles looked up he could see the spot from which he had watched the siren the night before. Stiles couldn't feel the forest’s magic, not from down here, but he could feel the ocean stretching out before him, and the great power that was held within the water’s depth.

It was overwhelming. Stiles stood with his back to the rocks as he stared out over the sea and let the weight of its magic settle inside his chest. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and let the sun warm his skin, the heat of its rays grounding him. Water lapped along his ankles and Stiles breathed in the clean scent of saltwater.

He had never felt so right, so centred, as he did in that moment. It was like the world had come to a standstill around him: there was nothing but himself and his magic, and the magic of the world, stretching out before him. It was gorgeous, and he let himself get lost in the feeling.

When Stiles refocused, he aimed his thoughts back at what he had first come for. Stiles needed to see the siren again. He was itching with curiosity, a scratch that he couldn't reach. It was only made worse by how little he knew. The townsfolk only had fables and tales, and so many of the stories that Stiles had heard contradicted themselves. He had no idea what was true and what was tale. All he knew was that he had to  _ know _ .

Stiles realized, feeling foolish for not noticing earlier, that he had never heard the singing during the day. Stiles looked up at the sun, hanging high in the sky, and settled himself down to wait. The rocks were large enough that they were above the waters limit, and he was able to dangle his feet in the water without the rest of him getting wet. He did his best to get comfortable, leaning against a surprisingly smooth bit of stone.

He waited.

Time stretched on, and he tried to entertain himself with tricks made with his own magic. There were a few times, over the years, where Stiles would use his spark to entertain small children. For a while, he would give small shows in the towns he visited. Kids loved them and parents didn't often ask questions when you could entertain their children for lengths of time.

Those tricks did little to entertain him now. Still, he flexed his spark, focusing on the way it floated out of him and interacted with the magic of the world around him. It was gorgeous, the way his spark bled with nature's magic. Stiles let his eyes close, his spark singing with delight as it danced with the surrounding magic.

Stiles let out a yawn, tired despite the amount of sleep he had gotten the day before. He let his eyes fall closed, warmed through by the sun and relaxed by the soft sound of the tide. He saw no harm in allowing himself a bit of rest.

 

Stiles woke with a start, snapping into an upright position from where he had fallen over in his sleep. He blinked away his confusion, disorientated by the strange surroundings. The rush of roaring water was all he could hear, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The moon was nothing but a sliver of light in the sky, half-covered by a trail of clouds. Stiles let his head fall back against the stone as he let out a deep sigh.

Disappointment, hot and heavy, settled in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't believe that he had fallen asleep as he waited. All Stiles had wanted was to see the siren again, to know  _ more _ . The urge for knowledge was even sharper than it had been the day before, now that he had spent the night waiting for the creature, only for it stay hidden.

Stiles let out another sigh, pushing himself up. The siren wasn't out now, and Stiles was sure that its singing would have woken him up. That could only mean that the siren hadn't sung at all that night. The thought left an uneasy feeling in Stiles' stomach that he didn't want to name.

Resigned, he trudged back to his home, unable to push down the disappointment he felt. Stiles knew his lips were twisted down into a pout, but there was nothing to be done. He had waited all day to see the siren, for nothing. As he walked back up the beach, using the light of his spark to guide his way, frustration built in his chest.

He did his best to ignore the ugly feeling in his stomach, focusing instead on the walk home. The night was cooler than the day had been, but Stiles was still comfortable. His spark shone bright enough under his skin to light the way, and he used it to guide him. His magic sat warm in his chest, getting rid of any chill Stiles may have felt.

* * *

The next night, Stiles woke to singing. He rolled onto his side, stretching out his back as he arched in a long line, stretching his muscles. His back popped, something that had been happening for the last little while; a sign that he was getting older. When he settled back into his bed, a smile crept onto his lips of its own accord.

The song tonight was amazing. It wasn't the dark, haunting melody from the other day, but something much more upbeat. Stiles let its happy cadence wash over him, delighting in the magic he could feel wrapping around his body. It was a softer pull than it had been before, but it almost felt more...personal. Stiles was sure it was only wishful thinking, but it was like the song was for  _ him _ .

He climbed out of bed slowly, in no rush, and dressed in similar clothes to the night before. The loose fabric hung comfortably off his frame. When Stiles stepped outside, the moon was bright enough that he could see to walk, though not much more. He let his spark rise and settle under his skin, keeping away the chill as he walked across the beach.

It didn't seem as far with the siren's magic wrapping around him and urging him onward. He walked through the night, letting the soft singing settle over him. It was near impossible to fight down his easy smile, so Stiles stopped trying. The water was glistening, gleaming with moonlight, and the waves were cold around his feet when he stepped into them.

Stiles called upon his spark just enough to clearly illuminate where he was stepping. The soft sand was turning to harder rock against the pads of his bare feet. There was a bend ahead of him, a sharp corner of the cliff that would lead Stiles to the little alcove he had fallen asleep in the day before, and he took a deep breath as he approached it.

The singing was so loud down here that it reverberated through his soul. It was all that he could hear and all that he could feel, and he wanted to lose himself in the soothing melody forever. It left him feeling weightless, and the overwhelming calm only increased when he rounded the last corner.

There, sat on the same rock he’d been on the night that Stiles watched from the forest, was the siren. The moon's light was dull, but it still shone bright enough that Stiles could see a muscled back; lines of strength caught under smooth skin. Stiles couldn’t take his eyes away. His mouth hung open, going dry, and his tongue suddenly felt too big inside his mouth.

The creature turned, tipping his head back and stretching his neck. The pull caused veins to play out under smooth skin. Stiles stared, entranced, his eyes devouring all he could see. Heat built up in Stiles' belly, and a desire that he had never before experienced took over his senses until it was all he knew.

The siren was beautiful. Stiles' breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as he took in the creature's glory. He had never before seen something so enticing. Stiles' entire body bent forward, wanting with every fiber of his being to go to the creature. The creature was still singing, and his voice was so loud, down here. Stiles was all-consumed; there was nothing but the siren’s song and the magic that was wrapping around him.

His heart felt full of want, nothing but an urge to get closer. He had to fight his own body not to step, to  _ run  _ forward. Stiles wanted to drown himself in the siren’s song, and he knew that if it wasn’t for his own spark burning brightly inside of his chest, he  _ would _ . 

The siren looked over at him, and Stiles’ breath once again caught in his throat as everything stilled. The siren’s eyes were the palest of blues, shining in the moonlight. Stiles couldn't look away, trapped by the creature’s gaze. He lost himself in the siren’s beauty and the gentle melody of the song he was singing.

He sat back, watching, and he wondered how something so beautiful could be rumoured to cause so much death?

* * *

Stiles sat and listened and watched until the sun went up and the siren sank back under the water. The creature had given Stiles a long look before he’d stretched, his entire body glowing in the soft morning sun. Stiles had stared, entranced, as his eyes tracked over the creature’s body. He was bare, but with the rising sun there were no shadows covering his body.

Stiles’ mouth went dry as his eyes took in  _ everything _ : the muscled skin and the swirling of chest hair and of...of  _ other _ hair. Stiles felt a ridiculous need to fan his face as his cheeks heated up with a dark flush. He couldn't look away, nor did he want to—he stared. The siren was no longer singing, but Stiles was still caught in his pull. 

The siren raised his arms above his head and Stiles’ eyes dropped down to the place he’d been avoiding looking at. Heat churned through his belly, and his breath got caught up in his throat. Stiles stared at the siren’s intimate place, memorizing what he saw as his blood warmed and his heart beat faster and faster. 

The siren  _ winked _ , and then he was standing, showing off everything for a moment before he dived into the water. Stiles made a helpless noise in the back of his throat as the creature disappeared. It took a moment for a thought that wasn’t about how the siren looked to enter his mind, but as soon as Stiles got his wits back he turned and all but rushed home. 

The walk back to his house felt like the longest journey Stiles had ever taken. His entire body was warm, his blood pumping hotly. His thoughts were stuck on the siren and the way he had looked and sounded. There had been few people over the years who had made Stiles feel like this, and none of them had affected him this strongly.

Stiles didn’t wait any longer than he had to. He fell back against his front door, breath coming quickly, speeding up even more as he thought back to the siren and what he had looked like in the soft, golden glow of dawn. Stiles’ hand fell to his pants and pressed against himself where he was beginning to thicken and lengthen. 

He slipped his hand into the waistband of his loose pants, fingers tickling over bare skin. His hair there was long and curly, a thin trail that ran down his stomach and thickened into a bush. Stiles gave it a little tug and bit into his bottom lip at the spark of pleasure that raced up his spine. 

Slowly, he pushed his pants further down and let them fall to the floor. His length bobbed up, so hard that it slapped against his stomach. Stiles wrapped a hand around himself, goosebumps breaking out over his skin. He was so hard that it ached, and he squeezed himself firmly. 

The creature looked so  _ strong _ , corded in muscle that Stiles wanted to get his hands, his  _ mouth _ , on. He had never felt like this for anyone, not...not really. Stiles ran his fist up the length of himself, and his breath shuddered as his palm rubbed over the sensitive skin at the tip.

A bead of clear liquid spilled out, and Stiles caught it on his thumb to taste. It was bitter, salty against his tongue, and Stiles brought his hand back down to where he was achingly hard. He had never done this before. He rubbed himself more, pumping his fist up and down. The skin was sliding over the flushed head, peeling back in a way that made Stiles shiver. 

All he could think of was the siren and the siren’s body and the intoxicating song it had sung. His head was full, clouded with images and flashes of pleasure, no room for anything else. His hand kept going, stroking himself faster and faster as the pleasure built. It all felt so good and so new. He let his other hand trail down to cup his testicles, rolling the balls between his fingers.

Stiles kept going. His hand moved smoothly, wet with the liquid he was leaking. His skin was flushed, and the head was dark pink and shiny as Stiles continued to work himself over. Pleasure was building in a way that Stiles had never before experienced, stealing his breath and making his heart race inside of his chest. It was all so much, too much, and it kept feeling better, kept getting more and more and  _ more— _

Stiles arched his back as he cried out, and the pressure that had been building in his stomach  _ exploded _ . Stiles thought he was going to pee, and he shot his eyes open in alarm. It was too late; his dick twitched in his hand, and suddenly it all released. His hips twitched forward as he shot off, spilling over his hand and his belly and shooting out on his floor. He came and came, his entire body wracked with shivers as it  _ kept going _ . 

He came down slowly, his body shaking as the intensity tapered off. His knees wobbled, and he slumped against the door, letting it hold him up. After a moment he slid down to the floor, too weak to hold himself up any longer, and sat there panting. Stiles let his eyes fall closed, a pleasant, easy glow settling over him. He yawned, exhaustion tugging at him softly, and then his lips tilted up into a smile.

The only thought the quiet peace of his brain was that he couldn't wait to go back and see the siren again. 

* * *

Stiles didn't go to the water the next night, as the siren had not sung. Instead, he spent the night thinking of that morning and...what he had done. Never before had Stiles wanted to...to do that. He’d heard about it, yes, but Stiles had spent so little time alone over the years that the urge had never taken over.

Sometimes, Stiles would wake up sweaty, with his underwear wet, and he would know what happened. He knew what it was, that his underwear was filled with his spend, but he had never tried to get himself off before. 

Stiles had never had enough privacy to feel comfortable touching himself with anything other than lazy curiosity. He had never before been so purposeful, and he had never made himself release. Living in the woods and staying in borrowed rooms meant he’d never had the privacy to feel comfortable doing it. 

Having his own home changed that, but even so, he hadn’t had the urge to touch himself. Not until the siren. Even now, just thinking about the creature made his blood run warm with a desire he had never felt before. It was foreign, wanting someone in such a way. 

Stiles was startled out of his thoughts as music filtered into his senses. He focused, but he already knew what it was. The song was new, and the siren’s magic wrapped around him in a hold that was stronger than it had been the last two times. All of him yearned him to go back to the water, and he was dressing before he’d made the decision to do so.

He wasn't sure if it was because he wanted to go, but he found that he wasn't able to fight off the pull this time. It was though his body was acting of its own accord. All Stiles knew was that he had to get to the water and see the siren. He only noticed he had left his house when his bare feet touched cool sand.

It was late. The moon was already high in the sky and the sun nowhere to be seen. Stiles came back to himself slowly, his spark burning so hot in his chest that it was all he could feel. He took a deep breath before he continuing to walk, making sure he was in control of his actions. The siren was still singing, and he could still feel the pull of its magic, but it was no longer pushing past his consciousness and forcing him to move.

Stiles frowned as he approached the shore. It was cold, with the mist from the water settling over his skin and making him shiver. The wind was sharp; Stiles felt in his bones, even with his spark keeping him warm. It was unforgiving, raging against the waves, and Stiles felt fear lick up his spine. He knew how dangerous the waters were, and Stiles wasn’t used to being so close to the unpredictable ocean.

Still, he walked on. His body glowed with magic which worked to keep him warm from the inside. It provided more than enough light to see by. He stepped into the water slowly. Cold shot up his body before his spark could heat up enough to keep it at bay. When Stiles rounded the corner, he saw the siren on the same rock he had been sitting on the other night.

Instead of staying at the corner’s edge like he had last time, Stiles walked up to the same rock he had sat on the day he'd fallen asleep. It took a moment’s work and a boost of magic to hop onto the smooth top of stone, and then he wiggled until he was sitting comfortably. The entire time Stiles felt the creature’s gaze on him, as though his eyes were burning into Stiles' skin, but the song never stopped nor faltered.

When Stiles looked back, the siren was staring at him intently. A shiver ran up Stiles' spine, but it wasn't a bad feeling. He liked the way the siren was watching him, his eyes shining bright blue in the moonlight. Stiles could feel the creature’s gaze like it was a physical thing, boring into him and sticking to his skin. He stared back, unable to look away and not wanting to.

Slowly, very slowly, the siren's music tapered off. Stiles got to watch as the creature stopped singing, its jaw working as the melody kicked up before tapering off. It was a wonderful thing to see. As the last note of the song faded into nothing, Stiles felt the magic taper off with it. The siren stretched, long lines of muscle shifting as he did so, and Stiles' breath caught in his throat.

“Hello,” Stiles hazarded a greeting. His heart was beating so loudly that it was all he could hear, drowning out the sound of the sea and the heavy waves that crashed into the surrounding shore.

The siren stared at him, blues eyes piercing his skin until Stiles thought he could feel the creature’s gaze in the depths of his soul. A shiver ran down Stiles' spine as his magic flared warmer in his chest. The siren was pulling him in with nothing but a look, and Stiles had to focus on his magic to keep himself from falling. He leaned back against the cliff wall, settling his hands on his thighs as he took a deep breath and pushed off the last of the siren’s pull.

The creature’s lips twisted into a smile that could only be called sharp. “Hello,” he purred, his voice slipping from his mouth like velvet, just as gorgeous as when he sang. “You are not compelled by my song.”

“I am.” Stiles took a breath that shook out of his chest. The siren was beautiful. Stiles let his magic flare up inside himself until he was glowing. “My magic happens to be stronger.”

The creature cocked his head to the side. His eyebrows pulled low over his eyes as his lips tilted down into a pout. Stiles found his eyes tracing the lines etched into the creature’s face, running along his sharp jaw and getting stuck on the shape of his lips. 

“Then that makes you a first,” the siren said, and there was a note of something in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “What is your name?” the creature asked, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. Stiles enjoyed the way the expression shaped the siren’s face.

“My name is Stiles, and what is yours?” 

“You may call me Peter,” he said. His voice echoed around the little patch of rock. The water was calming, its waves slowing as the moon moved across the sky. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Stiles told him, eyes drinking in the sight before him. Peter leaned back, stretching his body in a long line that caught Stiles’ breath.  _ Goodness _ , he was the most beautiful thing Stiles had ever seen. 

“Oh sweetheart, it is nice to meet you, too.”


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles stayed at the beach until the sun rose. Peter—which Stiles had learned was as close to the siren’s name as human language could pronounce—stayed with him. They talked. Peter's voice rang through the clearing like a song, the most gorgeous noise that Stiles had ever heard, as he regaled Stiles with tales that sounded more like fables than truths.

He had been more than happy to listen to Peter talk. It seemed his voice only spun magic when he was singing, but Stiles found himself enraptured all the same when the creature spoke. Stiles hadn't been able to look away, drawn in by Peter's beauty. His body was gorgeous, and Stiles’ thoughts dirtied more the longer he stared.

All he could think of were the thoughts he’d had the other night and how good it had felt to bring himself off to thoughts of Peter. The pleasure he had brought himself was all that he could think of, and he could feel his body reacting even as he watched Peter. He did his best to ignore it and focus on the conversation he and Peter were having.

When the moon started to fall across the sky, Stiles knew their time was going to end. He had never seen the siren out during the day, and there was something so otherworldly about the creature that the thought of seeing him in the sunlight was odd. The moon painted the Peter in a silver glow, and Stiles had watched the flex of muscles and the shifting of his body as they spoke.

When they had run out of pleasantries, Peter started to sing. His song was gorgeous, the most beautiful thing that Stiles had ever heard him sing, and it was almost impossible resist the pull. It was like the siren was  _ trying _ to pull him in, and only Stiles' own magic kept him from falling forward and offering the siren everything that he was.

It felt like a game. Peter would sing a line that wrapped around Stiles like fog, before it solidified and urged him forward as if it were a physical thing pulling him into Peter's space. In turn, Stiles' spark flared so brightly under his skin that he glowed, lighting up the alcove and pushing away the hold that Peter's magic had on him. Not once did they break eye contact as their magic pushed and pulled.

By the time the sun had rose, Peter had let his singing fade away into nothing. Peter and Stiles watched each other quietly, their eyes shining with magic. Stiles was elated, his spark all but jumping in excitement. Peter said nothing when he finally left. He stood, once again stretching his entire body in a long line that Stiles' eyes tracked before he dived under the water.

In a moment, the trance he’d been in broke and he was left alone, feeling barren. His magic settled under his skin, feeling disappointed and underwhelmed with nothing to focus on. Stiles slumped back against the cliff’s edge, his entire body sagging into the rock as the last of his energy seemed to seep out of him. He yawned widely, exhaustion settling into his bones as he contemplated the walk back home.

Still, he pushed himself off the rock. The shock of cold water against his feet jolted him and helped wake him enough that he managed to walk home. He shuffled to his room, stripping on his way, before falling into bed and letting sleep take him.

* * *

Stiles woke with a gasp. Sweat beaded along his brow as the last dregs of sleep slowly faded away. He was still clinging to his dream, and he rolled his hips down into the bed as images flashed behind his eyelids. They were of Peter, all of them. Stiles was so hard that it  _ hurt _ , an ache in his belly that was only made better when he slipped a hand under his stomach and wrapped his fingers around himself.

He gasped, completely breathless as he rolled his hips again. It was so much better with the pressure of his hand wrapped around him. He pushed his face deeper into his pillow, blocking out anything but what he was imagining. Focusing, he brought to mind the image Peter had made last night: gorgeous in the light of the moon, and better once the sun had begun to rise. 

When Peter had  _ stood _ , everything had been bared for Stiles to see and his mind ran with those images. Peter’s own penis had been soft, but it had hung heavily between his legs, nestled in a bush of hair and swaying as he stretched. Stiles moaned when he thought of it, speeding up the roll of his hips as he thrust into his fist. 

Swiping the thumb over the head, he cried out, imagining what  _ Peter _ would feel like in his hand, how big he would get if he was aroused like Stiles was. He rolled onto his back, haphazardly pushing his pants down to his thighs. Stiles threw his head back and wrapped himself in both hands, his hips twitching up off the bed as he groaned. 

He stroked himself slowly, picturing the way Peter’s neck had arched when he leaned back, the flex of his stomach as he stood, the great width of his shoulders, and imagining what all that muscled skin might feel like under his hands. 

Shuddering, he stroked himself faster, both hands moving as the pressure grew and grew. His balls were drawn up tight and Stiles let a hand trail lower, rolling them between his fingers as his breath caught up in his throat. It felt so good, too good, and he was getting close, the familiar rush of pleasure sweeping over his skin.

He arched his back, thumbing over his head one last time before he was off, coming and coming and coming, spilling wet over his belly and up onto his chest. He panted, heaving in large gasps of air as his body shook through his release. Stiles slumped into the bed, breathing heavily as his mind quieted in his afterglow. 

* * *

Stiles was already at the alcove the next time Peter rose from the water. He hadn't been able to sit around after he’d gotten off. As soon as his haze wore off, he’d been restless. He had too much energy to sit around, and his spark had been itching under his skin with excitement.

Instead of fighting it, he walked to the forest, letting his spark tangle with the magic of the woods. The forest was  _ his _ , more and more; the longer Stiles lived there the closer he felt to nature's magic. He could feel the lines of magic that ran within the earth, and when he focused he could trace them all the way to the town. It was wonderful, being so connected with the surrounding energy, and it made him feel so much stronger.

When the sun had crossed the sky, Stiles headed to the ocean. He wasn't sure if Peter was going to be out tonight, but he hoped. There was a warmth in his chest when he thought of Peter, unlike anything he could remember feeling before. Their conversation had been simple but pleasant, and Stiles had had  _ fun _ stretching his magic.

By the time he made it to the alcove, the moon was beginning to rise. He watched as it got higher and higher, nervous anticipation building up in his chest. His knee was bouncing, and he did his best to sit still and not get up to pace. He wanted to be there when Peter came up, if he was going to, and he remained on the usual rock he sat on as he watched over the water.

There was no warning before the water broke.

Stiles watched, as entranced as he always was when he watched Peter, as the man emerged from the water and climbed atop the rock he seemed to favour. His hair was wet, slicked back against his scalp as more water clung to his skin. Stiles was riveted at the way water slid down his body, eyes tracking each droplet.

Peter was facing away from Stiles, and he watched as the muscles in his back shifted. Stiles’ mind flashed back to exactly what he had done that morning, and his penis stirred in his pants. All Stiles could think of was how Peter’s skin must feel, must  _ taste _ , and he couldn't look away from the skin bared to him. 

Stiles watched as Peter turned, taking in the flex of his muscles and the way his skin glistened under the moonlight. He didn’t want to look away. His hand fell to where he was beginning to thicken up inside his pants. The pressure of his hand did nothing to discourage the blood filling him. Stiles’ eyes tracked up the siren’s body, his mouth drying as Peter settled onto his rock and leaned back.  

“Hello, Stiles.” The siren's voice was heavy with magic and it made Stiles shiver, a rush climbing down his spine. He sounded pleased, which made Stiles want to preen, as ridiculous as that was.

“Good evening, Peter,” he said, ignoring the way his voice shook. He was excited. It felt like there were endless possibilities stretching out before him as Peter's lips twisted up into a smile.

“You are here early tonight.” Peter's voice lilted at the end, and the sound made Stiles want to smile.

“I wanted to see you,” Stiles said before he could think of another answer, the truth tumbling off his tongue. He frowned, and it was only then he noticed the way Peter's magic had gently wrapped around him. Stiles' spark rose under his skin, breaking the spell. “I didn't know your magic could do that.”

Peter's smile twisted into a smirk, a look that made Stiles' belly heat up in a way that was becoming familiar. “There’s lots you do not know about me, darling.”

“That is true," Stiles agreed, tilting his head to the side consideringly. He’d already been honest once, so he said, "I would like to learn more about you."

Peter threw his head back and laughed, a pleasant noise, and he said, “Oh, you are such a sweetheart.”

Stiles wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing. People had been interested in him before, he knew, but never like this. No one had ever been so...forward. No one had ever called him sweet names or showed themselves off as Peter did. He liked that Peter seemed to be interested in him, but he found it...almost intimidating. 

Peter leaned back on his hands and spread his legs. Stiles made a noise in the back of his throat, something that sounded helpless even to himself. He hardened faster than he ever had before. 

“You may ask me whatever you like, darling.” Peter’s voice sounded like a caress as it washed over him. Stiles shivered, eyes tracking up and down Peter’s body as he fought for something to say. He wanted to know more about Peter, wanted to know  _ everything _ , but he didn’t know where to start. 

“What does your magic do?” Stiles asked, remembering how it had felt the very first night he heard it—the gentle, happy pull of it wrapping around him, and then how it had felt so dark, clutching at his soul and pulling him forward. How it had felt only moments ago, pulling the truth from his mouth. 

“My voice does many things,” Peter said. 

When he didn’t explain any further, Stiles asked, “Is that where your magic comes from? Your voice?”

Peter tilted his head and raised a brow as though thinking, before he shrugged his shoulders. “You’re not very forthcoming for someone who said I could ask you whatever I wanted,” Stiles told him, and was pleased when Peter threw his head back and laughed. It stretched his neck out, and not for the first time Stiles wanted to feel the skin beneath his tongue. 

“I did say you could ask me whatever you liked. I did not say I would answer any of your questions,” Peter’s voice was still light with laughter, and it made Stiles want to smile as well.

Instead, he stuck out his bottom lip in a pout and tried to make his eyes look as round as possible. It was something that he had used to do  _ before _ , when he was still young and lived with his parents. He didn’t think it would work now that he was grown, but it had always worked on the adults in town.

“I like you more and more by the minute, darling,” Peter said, and Stiles felt his cheeks flush as he smiled. “Yes, my magic is channelled through my song.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Stiles murmured, leaning back against the rock he was sitting against. “Have you always lived in the water?” 

“Yes,” Peter told him, his body still extended in a long line that looked like sin. “The ocean is my home.”

“Are there others? Like you?”

“I am the only one of my kind that I know of.” There was something in Peter’s voice that made Stiles’ heart ache in sympathy. Stiles was no stranger to loneliness, and it seemed Peter wasn’t, either. 

“Is that why you come up here, then?”

“I have to have fun somehow, don’t I?” Peter’s eyes flashed a brilliant, electric blue as he spoke Warmth ran down Stiles’ spine before curling up his belly. 

Stiles was hesitant to ask his next question, but the way Peter was looking at him—his eyes still glowing blue and a smile pulling his lips up—gave Stiles the strength to do so. “What...what do you do for fun?”

“Oh, this and that,” Peter told him, smiling wider when Stiles groaned. “Really, sweetheart. There’s a variety of things that I do for fun. Some I could show you, even.”

Peter’s voice rumbled out of his chest like a  _ purr _ , and his words lit up Stiles’ body. He fisted the loose material of his pants in his hands, grinding his teeth together as all the blood in his body rushed into his lap. Across from him, Peter’s bright eyes were tracking up and down his form, and they got caught on where Stiles was tenting his pants.

Stiles flushed, his entire face burning up. He clenched his hands tighter around his pants, groaning softly when it pulled the material against his length, putting more pressure against his sensitive skin. Peter made a deep noise that seemed to echo through the alcove. 

He ignored the building heat, not ready for all that he could see in Peter’s eyes. It was one thing to touch himself, but the way Peter was looking at him made him nervous and left him feeling unsettled. So he pushed what he was feeling away, focusing back on the conversation that they had been having. 

“Could you ever walk on land?” Stiles asked in a voice he knew was hesitant and shaky. It was something he had been thinking about since he woke yesterday morning.

Peter hummed, though he didn't respond. Silence stretched between them as Peter watched him, saying nothing, and a feeling Stiles didn't like unfurled in his chest. Finally, he tipped his head to the side and said, “My magic lies within the water, darling,”

“What does that mean?” Stiles asked, even though he knew what the answer was going to be.

Peter's face softened, and his tone was kind when he said, “I cannot leave the water."

Stiles’ heart twisted, something bitter rising up and making his chest ache. Having known the answer didn’t change how he felt at hearing it. Stiles realized, almost with a start, just how upset he was. He wanted Peter to come home with him, to follow him back and...well, there was lots he wanted from Peter. 

More than he knew what to do with. More than he had ever wanted from someone before.

“Don’t make that face, darling,” Peter said quietly, and Stiles ignored the way his eyes started burning. “Please. I don’t want to see you sad.”

“Sing to me?” Stiles asked, purely on impulse and knowing that he didn’t want to feel the way he currently did: filled with bitter anger and something darker, sadder, that he didn’t want to think about. 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Peter said, and then just like Stiles asked, he sang, oh so sweetly.  

* * *

Stiles did not go to visit the next night. Peter sang, his voice as achingly beautiful as ever, but Stiles sat in front of his fire and ignored the pull. When he thought of Peter, his heart raced. Never before had Stiles felt for someone the way that he felt for Peter, and it scared him. He didn’t have a single idea how to handle his feelings—so he didn’t.

Ignoring the pull wasn’t easy, and it was made harder by how badly Stiles wanted to answer the call. Every part of him craved Peter, but he resisted. Instead, he thought. Stiles had grown up watching his parents be in love. Even though that all felt like a lifetime ago, he could still remember the way his parents had cared for one another, and the childish dreams he’d had of having that for himself. 

Stiles had done many things during his life. He had travelled to many places and met many people. Sometimes, when Stiles looked back, it felt like he had lived multiple lifetimes during the span of his years. He had no idea how Peter could fit into that. He didn’t even know if Peter would  _ want _ to fit into that. 

While Stiles was sure that Peter was attracted to him, he had no idea if Peter would ever want anything more. If he would want all the things that Stiles did. Stiles wanted to share his life with someone, someone to love like his parents had loved each other. Before Peter, he had never considered sharing that with someone. 

But now, with Peter, he wanted things that he hadn’t let himself dwell on in years. It was terrifying, not knowing if Peter would want any of it too, or if they could have it if Peter did. He had told Stiles that his home was in the water, and it had felt like his heart was collapsing. 

How badly he longed for Peter scared him even more. He was terrified that it was nothing more than magic, that everything he felt was only there because of the siren’s song. Stiles had no idea what he would do if that was the case. When he thought of Peter, everything was overlaid with desire.

He resisted the pull of Peter’s magic, but all he wanted was to go to him. 

It was so foreign, but it excited him. Still, Stiles had no idea what he was going to do. All he knew was that he wasn’t ready to see Peter, so he focused on the heat from the fire blazing in front of him and ignored the urge to go to him. It was too soon, and the feeling of disappointment was still too fresh for Stiles to be able to face him again. 

 

Stiles woke with a start. The fireplace was dark, the logs he had been burning nothing but a pile of ash. The sun was setting, and golden light streamed in through his windows. He stretched, his entire body protesting from sleeping on the hard floor. A groan slipped past his lips as his back popped painfully, and he pulled himself off his floor with much effort. 

It was a few short, shuffling steps to his bed, and he fell onto the soft mound of blankets with a happy little sigh. He wasn’t particularly tired after sleeping for most of the day, but he still lay with his eyes closed, his mind pleasantly blank. The light of the sun was warm against his eyelids, and he soaked up the feeling as he stretched out. 

Slowly, a song floated through the air. It was quiet, even quieter than that first night, but as soon as Stiles picked up on it, all of his attention focused in. As he listened, a feeling he didn’t like climbed up his throat. The song was gorgeous, the most beautiful thing that Stiles had ever heard Peter sing, but it was  _ sad _ . The aching melody made Stiles’ chest burn, and the music wrapped around him slowly until he was overpowered by its pull. His spark flared brightly, pushing away the foreign magic, but it was persistent.

The pull was stronger than it had ever been, stronger than Stiles knew it could be. It was almost with defeat that he pulled on pants and donned a loose shirt. As much as he wanted to see Peter, he was still unsure. If Peter could not leave the water, Stiles could never have him, not in all the ways he was starting to want him. He wasn’t sure if seeing Peter would do anything other than hurt him. 

Stiles closed his eyes, squeezing them tighter at the ache that settled in his chest. Peter’s song tore at his chest, and Stiles gasped when his eyes began to sting with tears. 

The pull got stronger, and Stiles stopped trying to fight it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that it's a little late, hope you enjoy <3


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles pulled his legs up to his chest, hugging his knees in a way that made his back ache but sheltered him from the intense look in Peter’s eyes. Since he had sat down, long after Peter started singing, the siren had been staring at him with glowing eyes. Peter’s song had gotten sadder the closer Stiles got to the water. By the time he rounded the corner to the alcove, his eyes were filled with tears pulled from him by Peter’s magic.

He had sat on his rock and stared at Peter, who stared back, and neither of them had said a word.

They still hadn’t spoken. The moon had made its way over the sky, and all they had done was look at each other. Stiles didn’t know if he had anything to say, after the other night. He had tried his best  _ not _ to think of Peter during the few days he had pretended that the creature didn’t mean anything to him, but it had all rushed back to him the moment he turned towards the alcove.

Seeing Peter, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to stay away, not again. If Peter called, he would answer. Stiles wanted him too much to stay away, especially when Peter was pulling him back, singing just to him, just  _ for _ him. Stiles had never wanted someone like he wanted Peter, and he wanted Peter more than he ever could have imagined possible. 

Staying away wasn’t an option now, not after tonight. Peter looked gorgeous, as he always did, but his face was sombre. Stiles had no idea if Peter had missed him, but his face said that he might have, and that made Stiles’ heart heavier than it had been since Peter first told him he could not leave the water.

“I’m glad that you came,” Peter said finally, his voice a soothing rumble that Stiles had  _ missed _ , even though it had only been a few days. 

“I didn’t know that I was going to,” Stiles told him truthfully, stretching out his legs as he let his hands rest on his thighs. There was so much else he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. None of it mattered. “I am also glad.” 

Peter’s lips tilted into a smile that was very sweet. Stiles liked it, liked it more for the way it made his chest feel. He smiled back, a small twist of his lips, and he watched as Peter’s grin grew. Something big unfurled inside Stiles’ chest; his belly went warm in a way he was still learning to get used to. 

He was attracted to Peter. He was  _ very _ attracted to Peter, but sometimes it caught him by surprise. Stiles had been attracted to people before, but never this allconsuming. Stiles was getting used to it, more and more, and it didn’t shock him as much now when Peter’s beauty stole his breath away. 

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Peter asked, stretching back on the rock. Stiles didn’t stare, the way he had before, just pulled his hands together into his lap. 

There was a topic that Stiles wanted to broach, something that he felt he had to ask. But he  wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Peter’s answer was going to be. The last time he’d asked Peter something, the answer had done nothing but hurt. He didn’t think this would be any different, so he pushed the nagging thought to the back of his mind and answered the question that Peter had asked him.

“I am alright, thank you.” It was close enough to the truth. He  _ was _ fine, just disappointed. Still a little sad. He did his best not to think of all the things he wanted but couldn’t have. “And you?”

“I have been better,” Peter said. Stiles wasn’t sure if he had ever heard so honesty in Peter’s voice as he did then. His mouth fell open in surprise. “I did not like that you ignored my call.”

There were so many things that Stiles could say to that, but in the end he said, “I did not like ignoring it.”

“Then don’t do it again.” Peter’s voice was a harsh snap that made Stiles lean back from the ire in it. He’d never heard Peter sound like that before. Stiles took a deep breath, and then another until the fear had seeped from his body.

“The townsfolk say that you are dangerous,” Stiles said, his voice shaking. 

For so long, Stiles had travelled with the sole purpose of saving people. The compass gifted to him by the witch had led him from town to town. His magic was always needed somewhere, and Stiles had saved more lives than he would ever be able to count. It had felt like he was fulfilling his fate, like he was using his magic for the purpose for which Mother Moon gave it to him.

Peter...wasn’t like that. Wasn’t like him. They were so different. Hell, they were from two different worlds. Stiles’ heart twisted inside his chest when Peter’s face closed off until Stiles couldn't read the emotion on his face. 

“They are right,” Peter told him. His chin was raised in defiance. Stiles hated that he had put the tension in his shoulders. “And what of it? I am a dangerous creature, darling. I never pretended to be anything else.”

Stiles was silent for a very long time. He wanted Peter, so badly. But there was so much against them that it seemed impossible. “I...I don’t know what to do.”

Peter stood, and Stiles was sure that he was going to dive back into the water. He had never done anything else before, after all. Stiles’ mouth dropped open in surprise when instead Peter stepped  _ forward _ . The water only came to his ankles, even though Stiles knew it must be deeper. 

Stiles slid off his own rock, pulled in by Peter’s presence. He didn’t step forward, not yet. Peter came closer until Stiles could see his feet through the thin pool of water lapping at his ankles. Then he raised his arm, his palm up, and held it out for Stiles to take. 

Stiles didn’t step forward, even though his heart was beating out of his chest. 

“Come here, sweetheart?” Peter asked, and it was so, so easy to take his hand and let himself be pulled against his chest.

* * *

The water was cool against Stiles’ legs, lapping up and over his thighs. The days had begun to get shorter. It felt as though night came so early and stretched so late that he had hardly any of his day left. Stiles didn’t mind, as it meant that he got to spend more time than ever with Peter, though he found that he was not sleeping much as he spent all of his nights at the water.

It had been three nights since Peter pulled him into his arms and held him. Stiles had held him back, clinging to him tightly with an edge of desperation that made his fingers shake. Stiles had not hugged someone in years, and he had never hugged someone that he felt this way for. Heat had crawled through his body, but he ignored it, focusing on how good Peter felt as he cradled Stiles against his chest. 

Stiles had gone home and touched himself to the thought of it. He had been able to feel Peter’s length digging into his thigh, hot and heavy, making Stiles’ blood sing. It had been all Stiles could do to keep his hands mostly to himself, running his palms against the warm skin of Peter’s back but keeping his touch appropriate. He was hard too, but neither of them had done anything. 

Stiles hadn’t hesitated to go to the water the next night, and again Peter had slid off his rock and pulled Stiles into a warm hug before they left. The touch had lingered over Stiles’ skin, keeping him warm even though the morning was cool when he’d walked home. His bed had seemed so large, and he had felt the absence of Peter’s presence heavily. 

He hadn’t hesitated to go back the following night, either. He knew that he was gone, that there was no way he would be able to stay away from Peter even if he wanted to. It didn’t matter that Peter was dangerous or that he had done bad things. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t leave the water and that they could never be together.

Stiles cared about him, each day he came to care more. He learned so much as they sat and talked and...flirted. Each night Stiles learned something new, and he counted the days in the things that he had learned about Peter. He cared so much, more than he had ever before cared for another person, and he knew there would never be anyone else, not for him. Not now. 

That was why Stiles was sitting in the water now, Mother Moon shining down on them brightly but not warmly. Stiles was cold, with a chill that settled in his bones. Seeing Peter this close made his blood heat, but the chill in the wind still cut through his clothes and made him shiver. He let his spark rise under his skin to keep him warm as it had done all those years ago, spurred on by the way it made Peter watch him.

The siren liked seeing his magic, Stiles had discovered. He’d learned that Peter had never met a magic user like him before—though Stiles was not surprised by that. Stiles had not yet come across another like himself either. His magic was stronger than any others’ he had met; even he didn’t know the end of his own power.

He could tell that it intrigued Peter, made him more and more interested and Stiles used that to his advantage. Stiles flashed his eyes bright white, and Peter grabbed his ankle to pull him closer. Stiles laughed as he was dragged gently through the water until his feet were touching Peter’s thighs. Peter’s hand settled over his ankle, squeezing softly and rubbing small circles into the skin.

Every time they touched, Stiles entire body lit up, but he did nothing about his own hard length.

“I travelled, before,” Stiles told him, answering the question Peter had asked while he was lost in thought. His toes were cold, but he found that pressing them into the meat of Peter’s thigh was more than enough to warm them again. “I travelled, and I helped people who needed me.”

“And how did you do that?”

“Long ago, a witch gifted me a compass in thanks for saving a horse,” Stiles explained, smiling fondly at the memory. His magic had been so new, all those years ago. “The compass took me wherever my magic was needed, and I used my power to protect those who could not protect themselves.”

Peter was silent for a long while. Stiles didn’t mind; he enjoyed being with Peter no matter what they were doing. Even if what they were doing was sitting in the water, scarcely touching, as Stiles told him of his past.

“Why have you settled down?” Peter asked, the grip he had on Stiles’ ankle tightening a bit before it released, fingers rubbing over the skin gently.

“The compass stopped working,” Stiles said, letting himself soak in the easy comfort between them.

“I’m not sure that it did,” Peter mumbled. Stiles didn’t question him about it. 

They were quiet for the next little while. Stiles watched as the moon continued to move across the sky. It didn't matter how many hours they had together: it was never enough. Stiles wanted so much more, more than he knew he could get, and it made his heart ache. 

“I wish you could leave the water,” Stiles said, caught up in his emotions and unable to choke the words down. “Sleeping next to you would be so nice.”

“Darling,” Peter said, his voice a deep rumble, a  _ purr _ , that never failed to make Stiles blush. “Don’t ask me to come. I don’t believe I have the strength to say no.”

Stiles’ heart pounded out of his chest as he raised himself onto his knees. It was so easy to crawl forward, to rest over Peter’s legs as he straddled the siren’s waist. It was even easier to lower himself down, to make himself a home on Peter’s thighs. Peter’s shoulders were so strong under Stiles’ fingers, the skin so warm that Stiles’ entire body heated from the single contact. 

It was too much.

It wasn’t nearly enough.

Stiles leaned in, enough to rest their foreheads together, and asked, “Please, Peter. Come home with me.” 

Peter’s breath shook out of him and tickled Stiles’ lips. “Okay, my love. Okay.”

* * *

They didn’t leave until the sun was beginning to come out. Stiles had no idea what he was asking of Peter, not really, but he could imagine that it was a lot. Peter came slowly out of the water, taking small, measured steps. The hand that Stiles was keeping hold of for comfort squeezed his tightly, so tight that it bordered on painful, but he said nothing.

He let Peter take what he needed, and he channelled his magic into a warmth that he laid over Peter’s body. The man wasn’t dressed, though he never seemed to be cold despite the cooling weather. Stiles  _ felt _ it when Peter first stepped out of the water. With his spark laying over Peter’s body and seeping into his skin, he felt Peter’s magic pull and then  _ snap _ , sliding off his body and leaving him bare. 

Peter fell into his arms as soon as Stiles pulled him in, and he held the man as he shook and shook, wrapping his own magic around both of them. He had no idea what he had done, and a familiar feeling of grief crawled up his chest to make itself at home in his heart. Never would he have imagined that Peter would  _ lose _ his magic, and from the way the man was shaking Stiles didn’t believe that Peter had known, either.

“I am so sorry,” Stiles told him, holding Peter tighter, no willing to let go.

“It is not your fault, darling,” Peter told him, before he slowly pulled back, though not out of the circle of Stiles’ arms. His hands slid up Stiles’ back until they were cradling his head, then cupping Stiles’ face in his wide palms. This was the most they had ever touched, and Stiles found that he couldn't look away from Peter’s eyes—no long lit up by the glow of his magic but still so, so bright. “I chose this.”

_ I chose you _ . Stiles heard what Peter wasn’t saying, and he made a soft noise in the back of his throat. He leaned forward, resting their foreheads together in the second most intimate position they had ever been in, a thrill running through his body. “Thank you.”

Peter’s lips against his were everything that Stiles could have ever imagined. Heat raced through his body when Peter kissed him, and his heart felt like it was going to soar out of his chest. Stiles made another noise, this one helpless and desperate, and he pressed closer. He had never kissed someone before, and despite having no idea what he was doing, Peter kissed him back enthusiastically. 

Their lips dragged together; when Peter’s tongue licked over his bottom lip, Stiles gasped brokenly. It was all so much—Peter’s heat and the strength of his body and the way he felt, pressed up against Stiles with nothing but a thin slip of cotton between their skin. Stiles wanted more, wanted everything, and it felt like Peter was willing to give it to him. 

The kiss slowed before it could go any further. Stiles pulled back with a final kiss, a soft, chaste peck, and he smiled up at Peter so widely that his cheeks hurt with the force of it. Peter was smiling too, and while his smile didn’t stretch his face, it was the most gentle Peter had ever looked. 

God, how Stiles cared for him. 

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice choked. He let Peter pull him back for a few more kisses before he finally pulled away completely. “Let’s go home?”

Peter was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching over Stiles’ face. Then he nodded, his smile growing and crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Let’s go home, sweetheart.”

* * *

The walk to Stiles’ home was not a long one, but Peter didn’t seem very used to walking. He watched his feet the entire way, taking his steps carefully now that he was no longer in the water. Stiles found it hopelessly endearing. Peter stayed tucked against Stiles’ side, his arm wrapped loosely around Stiles’ waist as they walked up the beach.

“Do you have this whole beach?” Peter asked, curious. When he wasn’t watching where he was going, his eyes were scanning the area, looking curiously at the forest and the never-ending stretch of sand around them. 

“I believe so,” Stiles told him, grabbing onto Peter’s hand when it slid from around his side and bringing it up to his mouth to kiss. “I have never seen anyone else, and the townsfolk stay away from the water.”

Peter laughed and laughed, and then said, “We must go to this town so I can meet all those who fear me.”

Stiles just smiled. 

It didn’t take them much longer to get to Stiles’ home. The walk had been straight, but it was long, and Stiles was yawning by the time he let Peter inside. The man looked around curiously, taking everything in with wide eyes. It made Stiles’ heart grow. 

“This is...interesting,” Peter said, his voice tinged with an awe that Stiles hadn’t heard from him before. He liked it. 

“You think so?”

“I have never seen a house before,” Peter told him, running his hands over the wooden door and dragging his bare toes across the floor curiously. 

Stiles led him through the house, showing him the kitchen and the bath, the main room and then into the bedroom. Peter looked at everything as though he had never seen anything like it before, his broad fingers gentle as they brushed over wood and stone and fabric that he had never before felt. 

He was gorgeous, in the soft light of the rising sun, walking through Stiles’ home completely bare and all  _ his _ . There were words on the tip of his tongue that he wasn’t ready to say; he swallowed them back down for now. He knew that Peter cared for him more than he could have ever imagined, but he still wasn’t sure how much that was. He was startled from his musings when he led Peter to his bedroom, and a realization struck.

“I only have the one bed,” Stiles said, looking down at the soft down mattress and the pile of quilts and blankets that he had piled on top of it. It was comfortable, very much so, but it wasn’t a place that Stiles found himself spending much of his time—he’d been spending it with Peter instead. 

“Is that a problem for you?” Peter asked, tilting his head. 

“Well, no. Is it a problem for you?”

“Darling, I would very much like to go to bed with you,” Peter said, and Stiles flushed at the implication of Peter’s words. Peter came closer, hands warm against Stiles’ hips. “I am very tired as well. And as you said, it would be very nice to sleep beside you.”

Stiles nodded, though he still tilted his head up and pursed his lips. Peter granted him a kiss that Stiles turned into two, three, so many that he lost count. He pulled back after long minutes to find Peter’s lips red and shiny, and the sight sent heat curling through Stiles’ belly. He ignored his arousal and the stirring in his cock and instead undid the buttons of his shirt so that he could take it off. 

Peter had always been nude, and Stiles didn’t think he would prefer anything else for sleep. He stripped, slowly sliding his pants down to his knees until they fell the rest of the way. Peter had never seen him like this, and he had to hold his hands back from covering himself. He felt inadequate compared to how gorgeous Peter was.

“ _ Beautiful _ ,” Peter breathed, his eyes tracking up and down Stiles’ fame, hands twitching as though they wanted to reach out. Stiles flushed, feeling heat travel from his cheeks to his neck and spread out over his chest. He must have been so pink. “Darling, you are absolutely  _ divine _ .”

Stiles ducked his head, though he went when Peter pulled him in. Having their skin pressed together felt so much better than Stiles could have imagined. Peter was so warm, and with nothing between them that warmth spread through Stiles’ body and made itself at home under his skin. 

Peter stepped back, pulling Stiles with him. He had enough thought to brush his spark over them both before Peter stepped onto the bed, taking away any sand and leaving them clean. Peter fell back with an  _ oomph _ , and Stiles followed after him, dropping to his knees before lying down.

He had never shared a bed with anyone before, especially not like this. Peter was so close that Stiles could still feel his heat, and Stiles moved even closer, pressing into Peter’s side. Peter lay on his back, his arm wrapping around Stiles’ body to pull him up and over, and Stiles curled into him easily. 

Stiles realized, almost with a shock, that he was  _ home _ , and he was  _ happy _ , and more than anything else, he was  _ in love _ . Maybe it wasn’t what he had imagined for himself, and maybe it wasn’t what his parent’s love had looked like, but as he curled closer against Peter’s chest, he realized he had all he ever wanted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's a bit late! the last chapter will be posted this Thursday <3


	15. Chapter 15

previous night rushed back to him and his smile only grew. He turned his head so that he could press his lips into Peter’s chest, pleased by the way the smattering of hair tickled his nose. The man still had an arm wrapped around his waist, and Stiles curled closer.

He had never woken up next to someone before, but he found that he wanted to do it for the rest of his life. 

He was hard from the night, and he pressed his hips tighter against Peter’s side. The man’s skin was warm and smooth under his hardness. Sleep was still clinging to the edges of his consciousness, making his thoughts soft. He had dreamt of how Peter would feel against him, but it was so much better in real life. 

Peter’s hand slid down his back, running over the curve of his ass before grabbing it tightly. Stiles groaned as his hips stuttered forward. Peter chuckled deeply enough in response that it vibrated through Stiles’ entire body and made him shiver. Peter encouraged the movement, pressing Stiles even tighter against him.

“What a lovely thing to wake up to,” Peter said, his voice low and rough with sleep—the most enticing thing Stiles had ever heard. 

“Peter,” Stiles said, desperate. He had never been touched like this before, and it felt so much better than his hands wrapped around himself had. “ _ Peter _ .”

Stiles pulled his head back to look up at him, and his breath caught. He was so  _ gorgeous _ , the most beautiful being that Stiles had ever seen, and he was all his. In his bed, fresh from sleep, he was even more enticing than he had been before. Possessive glee rose in his chest as he looked up into Peter’s eyes, knowing that Peter had chosen to come with him and be his. 

Peter turned so they could kiss, and the next time Stiles rolled his hips his cock dragged over the muscled skin Peter’s stomach. The trail of hair scratched the overly sensitive skin of Stiles’ dick and his entire body went tight. He was close, he knew that, and the way Peter was licking into his mouth and biting at his lips made everything so much better. Familiar heat was building in his belly as he kept grinding forward.

A moment later, Peter squeezed his ass tighter and slid his hand to slip between Stiles’ cheeks and pressing a dry finger against his hole. The feeling made Stiles’ body lock up as the pressure exploded. His cock jumped against Peter’s stomach as he came and came, shaking through his release as Peter held him and rubbed his rim, making Stiles see stars. 

He gasped for breath, his hips twitching as his body spilled the last of his seed. Peter was holding him, and he rolled onto his back as Stiles came down from his high. His release was wet and warm between them, slicking their bellies as Peter held him tightly. It took several moments for Stiles to come down, but finally his mind was clear enough that he was able to press a kiss into Peter’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, embarrassed that he had spent so quickly. Peter was still pressed against his hip, hot and hard and so very big.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, darling,” Peter told him. His hands ran up Stiles’ back to his face, where they cupped his cheeks and tilted his chin up for a kiss. Despite the angle, Stiles found himself falling into it, eyes closing with a groan when Peter licked into his mouth. When he pulled back, his eyes were darker than Stiles had ever seen before. “We are only getting started, my love.”

Stiles’ eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open in surprise for a moment before a smile curled his lips upward. He felt so much more comfortable than he had expected. He was sure it was because it was Peter seeing him like this. His heart swelled. 

“I would like to have you,” Peter told him, his hands sliding back down Stiles’ back to hold his bum. 

Stiles nodded, though he buried his face into Peter’s chest. “I would like that too, but I have never been with anyone before.”

“Oh darling,” Peter said, his voice deep, and he rolled them both over. Peter’s weight on top of him made him gasp, and Stiles blinked up into his dark eyes. “You are magnificent.” 

Stiles smiled, letting Peter kiss him again. This was familiar, easy. He brought his legs up so he could hold Peter in place with his knees. It all felt so good, and even though Stiles had just found his release, heat was once again licking up his spine. Peter’s hands were hot and heavy, and they held his hips tight enough to press marks of ownership into Stiles’ skin. 

“I want to taste you,” Peter said. Stiles had no idea how much time had passed, but he didn’t care. It all felt too good.

He sunk back into the bed as Peter kissed at his neck, and he arched his head back for more when Peter  _ bit _ . Peter sucked at the skin, making Stiles moan as his hands twisted into Peter’s short hair, desperately trying to hold on. 

“Turn over for me,” Peter said into Stiles’ ear, licking around the lobe and making him shiver.

He did as asked, finding it easy to follow Peter’s lead. He felt as though he had no idea what was going on, like he was helplessly out of his depth. It was obvious that Peter had done this before, though he tried not to think about that and instead focused on the way Peter’s hands felt on his body and the encouraging noises that he was making.

Stiles let himself get lost in it all. Peter’s hands felt like fire against his skin and they trailed down his back to grab his hips. He  _ lifted _ , forcing Stiles up onto his knees while his shoulders stayed pressed into the mattress. His back was curved, and he pushed his ass higher in a move that he could only hope was appealing. Peter groaned; the noise made Stiles smile.

When Peter’s hands grabbed his ass, Stiles startled just a little. He knew what two men could do together—he’d heard the tales during his travels—but he had never thought of what it might be like. Now, with Peter’s hands on his skin, he couldn't wait to find out. He shivered when Peter ran a thumb over his hole, pressing small circles against his most private place.

Stiles moaned loudly, shoving his face further into the pillow when Peter’s  _ tongue  _ swiped a warm, wet path up his ass, pressing against his rim as he went. His hands fisted into the pillow under him as Peter kept going, licking Stiles’ hole and sucking. His dick was hard in an instant, filling with blood faster than it ever had before as Stiles’ entire body was lit on fire.

He had never felt anything like this; it was almost too much. He lost himself to the sensation, to the wet glide of Peter’s tongue in a place that had never before been touched. His thighs were shaking where he was holding himself up, though the way Peter’s hands were fisting his ass helped to keep him steady. He rocked into it, rolling his hips in a desperate attempt to get more.

Peter’s goatee made Stiles feel like he was going to fly out of his skin. The scrap of his facial hair was the most perfect contrast to the liquid heat gliding up his spine, making him feel boneless. His spark swelled with his arousal, amplifying everything. When Peter pulled away, Stiles was helpless to stifle the whine that slipped past his lips.

“Do you have oil, baby?” Peter asked, his lips catching against Stiles’ ass cheek. His teeth nipped, sending a shiver up Stiles’ spine. He made a noise of agreement before he waved his hand and imagined the jar of oil next to the bed. His magic was so bright that it appeared without any further thought. “Oh, isn’t that handy.”

Stiles laughed, relaxing as Peter’s hand massaged his thigh. Despite the newness of it all, Stiles felt nothing but thankful that he was sharing this with Peter. He knew the man cared for him, and that made everything so much better. When a finger, warm and wet with oil, pressed against his hole, Stiles relaxed and let it enter him. It felt strange, and there was a hint of burn that only made things better. 

As Peter fingered him, Stiles focused on the way his body felt, strung tight with pleasure and unable to feel anything else. His heart was full as Peter played his body, making him feel things he hadn’t known possible. He was so hard that it hurt, and when Peter pushed a second finger inside of him his dick pulsed, throbbing under him as Stiles’ hips twitched, impossibly wanting more.

Peter’s other hand was still running along his back, grounding him and keeping him centred. That was what he concentrated on when Peter began fucking into him, fingers impossibly big inside his body. It was all so much, knowing that Peter was inside of him like this. His breath was pushed out of him when Peter slid in a third finger. His mind quieted as he focused on the sensation of being filled. 

Time passed as Stiles floated along, lost to the way his body felt. The push and pull of Peter’s fingers were all he knew, the way that he was pressing against Stiles’ insides and lighting him up. He pressed against something that made Stiles cry out, his entire body flooding with pleasure so bright it eclipsed everything else.

“Are you ready?” Peter’s voice shocked him from his headspace. He twisted his hand, making Stiles mewl as his fingers dragged against his insides. Stiles nodded somehow, and made a noise of distress when Peter pulled his fingers out. “Alright, take a breath, sweetheart.”

“I-I want to see you,” Stiles panted. His voice was wrecked, his entire body was held tightly. 

“It will be easier this way,” Peter told him. Stiles shook his head as he wiggled his hips, making himself moan when Peter fucked his fingers into him again, jabbing the bundle of nerves that was making his entire body light up. 

“I don’t care,” Stiles managed to say, before biting so hard into his bottom lip that it began to bleed. He sucked away the taste of copper, pulling himself forward off Peter’s fingers and collapsing onto the bed. He gave himself a moment to breathe before he forced his limbs to turn himself over. “I want you to take me like this.”

“Anything for you, my love,” Peter said, leaning down and capturing Stiles’ lips into a kiss as his fingers went back to his opening. 

Stiles raised his legs,  _ presenting _ himself and loving the filthy way it made him feel. With Peter, he knew there was nothing to be ashamed of. Peter wanted him, cared for him, and he was so, so hard from what they had been doing. It made Stiles feel powerful, watching Peter’s cock twitch and leak. He knew that he would want to taste it. 

When Peter pressed in, everything else left Stiles’ mind. It was better than anything he could have imagined. Stiles’ fingers scratched down Peter’s back, digging into his flesh and holding on. Peter was stretching him impossibly more, splitting him in half. It stung, but it was so good. His mind was lost in a haze of pleasure, his thoughts hard to reach as he lost himself in the feeling of having Peter  _ inside of him _ , of them being closer than Stiles thought possible. 

“I love you, Peter,  _ Peter  _ I love you so much,” Stiles babbled, his words slurred as Peter leaned down to kiss him. It was messy, too much saliva and not enough technique, but Stiles didn’t care. He sucked on Peter's tongue and bit into his lips, whining when Peter bottomed out and filled him to completion.

He was whole. 

“I love you too, darling,” Peter panted. He stayed perfectly still, his back tense under Stiles’ wandering hands as he held himself above Stiles’ body. 

When Peter pulled out, Stiles cried. It was so much—too much. His entire body was shaking. He had never felt so full. His breath was coming in short bursts that didn’t give him nearly enough air. He held on as Peter began to move, rolling his hips forward and driving Stiles crazy with every single thrust.

It wasn’t much longer before Stiles fell over the edge. Every thrust had Peter’s cock dragging along his insides, making him moan and thrash and shake. It was everything; it was perfect. Stiles came with Peter’s hands holding his hips and digging bruises into his skin, his back arching as Peter fucked into him so hard Stiles shook apart. His release wet both of their stomachs, dribbling from his cock with every roll of Peter’s hips.

When Peter came only moments later, Stiles felt him release inside him, flooding him with warmth. He felt complete in a way he never could have imagined, stuffed full and covered in marks left behind by Peter’s mouth and hands, soiled with his own come. He panted desperately for breath, his entire body relaxing at once. 

Peter stayed where he was, and for that Stiles was thankful. He wasn’t sure what he would do if Peter pulled away, but he didn’t like the thought. He wrapped his arms around Peter’s back in a loose hug, humming happily when the man dropped his weight and rested his forehead against Stiles’ collarbone. The room stank with them, but Stiles breathed in heavily and loved it. 

“Thank you,” Stiles said again. He meant the words in so many more ways than he could ever express.

Peter kissed his sweat-slick skin and hummed, and Stiles thought perhaps he knew everything Stiles didn’t know how to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done. Thank you so, so much to everyone who has followed this story as it went, and anyone who reads it now that it is complete. Every comment and kudo has meant the world to me. Thank you so much <3

**Author's Note:**

> And here we go! I've been working on this fic since May, so to finally be posting it feels amazing. Uploads will be every Thursday!
> 
> comments and kudos are much appreciated!  
> [my dreamwidth](https://lavenderlotion.dreamwidth.org/) and my [my tumblr](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)


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